


Dragon Blood

by VincentMeoblinn



Series: Dragon Blood And AU [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal, Angst, Anthropomorphic, Bestiality, Developing Sexuality, Dragon sex, Dragon!Lock, Egg Laying, Enthrallment, F/F, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of Cancer, More angst, Mpreg, Mutual Masturbation, Oral, Pregnancy, Slavery, seriously, there's a lot of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:34:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 121,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John saves a young dragon from drowning after another knocks it unconscious above the Thames. In response the enigmatic creature begins to follow him everywhere, either in human or dragon form, even to war in Afghanistan. When John begins to change because of the creature he is strangely relieved.</p><p>This story is dedicated to Fanomy, who inspired me to keep going- and keep thinking- when I would rather have trashed the whole darn thing. I may not be anything close to Sherlock, but you are definitely a conductor of light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fanomy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanomy/gifts).



 

 

 

CHAPTER 1 

  _Encyclopedia Britannica: Dragon  
Dragon’s today are descendents of royalty from ages past who conquered their territories using their immense abilities (for more on dragon abilities see page 32). Almost every race has a dragon form in its past, though some of the lines are extinct today. Even the smallest drop of dragon blood can produce an heir capable of transformation generations after the last known descendent with the ability. Most countries will honor that re-emerged trait and treat the newly emerged individual as royalty. (For example see: Duke Albert the Vain) and give them a title and some small allowances. _

John was peddling his bike at a leisurely pace, knowing this race would be won by stamina, not speed. It was the third such race he had attempted since graduating from Med school and he was proud of his third place status in the last one; the fact that it was to benefit Cystic Fibrosis* and sponsored by the hospital he worked for only made him that much more enthused to be a part of it.

The path started in Hyde Park, went to the Thames, traversed alongside the Thames up till Millwall Park, before turning around and following the same route back. It was 18.6 miles and required a good deal of traffic to be detoured, though a crossing guard was simply monitoring some roads where a major bridge was concerned. He was just rounding the first curve of the Thames – past Waterloo Bridge – when he saw one of the bikers shout and point up. He was soon joining the gaggle of rubber-neckers as a huge battle waged in the sky.

It was a pair of dragons, one significantly larger than the other; the larger was an English dragon and the smaller a Chinese dragon. The two were apparently at it to the death and blood had been drawn on the English dragon, which everyone was naturally cheering on based on patriotism alone. The poor Chinese sod was suddenly dealt a rather harsh blow to the head and plummeted from the sky at an alarming rate. He landed in the Thames. While several of his colleagues were cheering the English dragon on – who was flying off back towards Buckingham palace – John fled down towards the bridge as fast as his pedals would take him. There he pushed through the pedestrians leaning over the side and glanced below to see a shape below the surface of the water. It was the pale green Chinese dragon, and he wasn’t surfacing. John pushed off and hit the water at a dive not far from the creature. He swam quickly towards it, snatched it around its large head, and tried to haul it up.

_Damn all those people! Why isn’t anyone helping!_

His burden suddenly became lighter as the creature transformed back into human shape and John surfaced quickly with the pale person’s head on his shoulder. He could hear people cheering from the embankment and bridge, but _still_ no one moved to help. John started a backstroke towards the shore. He attempted to check the young man’s breathing while he did so, and upon turning his head was rewarded when the poor thing coughed up some water and took a shuddering gasp.

“Don’t move! I’ve got you!” John called out, hoping he spoke English, “You’re hurt. Just let me get you to shore!”

He was apparently quite dazed because he didn’t fight at all, not even when John dragged him ashore and laid him out to check him over properly. It was a young man, pale of skin and dark of hair, who was drifting in and out of consciousness. He was bleeding rather badly from a gash on his head and John was certain of both concussion and a need for stitches. After a dip in the Thames with an open wound a good round of antibiotics was in order, as well.

“I’m a doctor,” John explained, when the creature gave him a narrow eyed look for pawing his person, “I’m going to get you some help.”

John stood and glanced about, waving to a few people nearby and shouting for someone to call an ambulance. A few people he recognized were heading down the nearest embankment and one carried an emergency kit. The dragon lad had declined to move from his spot on the ground, so John knelt beside him and accepted someone’s sweater as a cushion for his head.

“He doesn’t look Chinese, are you sure you grabbed the right fellow from the water?” Stamford asked, “Looks English to me.”

“Only person I saw down there, you think he’s a fellow rescuer?” John wondered, glancing back out to see if the dragon were still visible.

“Maybe a suicide victim,” Dr. Hooper pointed out the track marks on his arm.

The young man had enough presence of mind to scowl at her and jerk his arm back.

“Oh! Sorry!” Molly stammered.

“What’s your name?” John asked, smiling kindly, “You can trust us, we’re all doctors. If you’re in some kind of trouble, we’ll help.”

Molly was technically still a med student, but John didn’t think that required correction. Stamford had broken open the kit and was pouring alcohol onto a pad to dab at his head wound, which had finally stopped bleeding on its own. The young man didn’t even wince when it touched him; he just focused his pale-green eyed stare on John and seemed intent not to break it. John found he couldn’t look away.

“I think he _is_ the dragon,” John whispered, unsure why he was doing so.

“What makes you say that?” Molly asked. She was looking him over for any other injuries.

“Aside from the fact he’s naked as the day he was born, his eyes are the same color as the scales,” John muttered, unable to get his voice louder.

“Oh, so they are,” Molly agreed amicably, “Are you hurting anywhere besides your head? Can you tell us your name?”

“Anyone who we can contact for you?” John asked.

The dragon-lad remained unresponsive and limp, allowing them to move him any way they wished and otherwise staring John down.

“Look, the ambulance has arrived. John, would you go meet them? They could probably use a hand down that embankment,” Stamford asked, his voice coming from a long tunnel.

_Wait, what?_

“John?” Stamford asked again, and the voice sounded even more distant.

Molly spoke, but she was so far off he couldn’t even hear much more than her tone of voice, which was concerned.

Stamford broke John’s eye contact with the dragon, by turning him physically to the side and holding his face level with his own.

“I… what?” John asked, blinking dry eyes rapidly and feeling disoriented.

“You alright, mate?” Stamford asked in concern.

“I… I think, so, yeah,” John replied, pulling away and rubbing at his eyes. He didn’t let the dragon catch his eye again, though he could feel that stare continuing to burn into him.

“I think you’d better go with the ambulance, John,” Stamford counseled, and John didn’t argue.

John rode beside the paramedic, his eyes locked on the head wound and still dodging the dragon’s eyes. They reached the hospital and the two were separated into different rooms.

John thought that was the last he would see of the enigmatic young man, but he couldn’t have been more wrong.

 

*A little girl I know has Cystic Fibrosis. I’d like to invite anyone who is willing and/or able to donate or participate in a walk for this cause during the month of May. When she was born her parents were told she wouldn’t live to see 5 years old. She’s almost a teenager now, with a life expectancy of 35 years old, because of the medical advances that have been made. She has to have a stomach tube and is easily injured (she just ended up in the hospital coughing up blood because a friend hugged her and bumped her neck!) but she is happy and beautiful because of the research done since the day she was born. This is a wonderful example of how we can all change the world for the better!

CHAPTER 2

_Italics = thought_

_ <Italics> = telepathy _

_Encyclopedia Britannica: Dragon Abilities  
In order to be classified as a dragon one must first and foremost have the ability to transform into one completely (for examples of incomplete transformations see: The Dragon Lady Soong May-ling). Other dragon abilities vary, but most often include flight, ability to breathe an element (fire, water, lighting, or ice) changing size, thrall, and bonding (see also: Effects of Thrall).  _

_See also: Rare Dragon Abilities_

John was certain he’d heard his door open and close. It had awakened him from the depths of sleep and he was on instant high alert. He reached beneath his bed and pulled out a cricket bat, intending on defending himself, before debating the merits of turning on a light. The idea that it was a past lover sneaking in was ludicrous – he hadn’t had a girlfriend since early med school and none of them had ever been given keys to this flat. So that left burglar.

John’s bedroom door opened and the outline of a shoulder appeared before it was shut silently behind the individual. John didn’t think they could see him in the darkness since his window was quite securely hidden behind blackout curtains. He had the advantage at the moment, especially since his eyes were adjusted to the dark. John watched the outline move towards the bed and swung the moment it was close enough to hit.

Two things happened at once: The outline changed from tall man to gigantic _something_ and his bat hit something hard enough to make the bones in his arms vibrate and ache all the way to his shoulders. John yelped in pain and then froze, waiting for death or the resolution of this bazaar dream. When neither came he turned on his bedside light.

A twelve foot long pale green Chinese dragon stood in his room; hind legs, tail, and one curve of belly planted on the ground beside his bed and front legs extended in front of it as though to grab the bat should he swing it again. It was quite tall as it arched over his bed, a head the size of his torso was looking down on him from above. The long ‘whiskers’ of its moustache appeared to be flesh as opposed to hair, and it’s ‘beard’ were in fact scaled ridges extending along its jaw. Four ivory horns, two small in front of two large, pointed out from its massive square head and extended behind it. Its ears were small and pointed enough to resemble another set of horns until it flicked them. The teeth were hidden with the exception of two long upper canines. The tail, just visible as it lashed at the foot of his bed where the dragon curled sideways, was covered in thin ridges resembling fish fins but artfully arranged to look like black flames. It had no ridges along its spine, giving it a more serpentine look. Its eyes…

Its obsidian orbs devoured him and John slowly lay back in the bed, eventually going limp. The bat clattered to the floor and the creature transformed back into that pale man with a mop of now-dry dark curls and pale-green eyes. John blinked as the eye contact was broken and the man walked to the foot of his bed before climbing up onto it with the grace of a serpent. Every movement was like silk gliding across a woman’s bare skin. He was agility personified and John couldn’t breath until he stopped moving and lay stretched out on his side beside him.

Once John got a stuttering breath in he turned his head to look at the beautiful man. He had no idea what he wanted, and though his presence in John’s bed might have been a huge hint he got no sexual vibes from him aside from the sensual movements that seemed to be his own natural grace. As John slowly rolled onto his side to face the man he watched as he shifted a bit, one leg smoothly gliding from straight to bent and back to straight again. It seemed to have no purpose other than so he could enjoy the glide of one hairless leg against the other. His hips had rotated seductively as he’d done so, but again the man made no overt movements and a glance between those supple thighs revealed a flaccid member demurely nestled in a thatch of tight dark curls.

John cleared his throat.

He failed to make a sound other than that so he tried again.

John turned over completely, fetched the glass of water from his nightstand, gave several big gulps, faced the dragon-man once more, and tried out his voice for a third time.

“Hello.”

_Well. That was pathetic. A creature out of legend appears in your bed, undoubtedly a member of some royal family, and you say ‘hello’. Then again what am I supposed to say? ‘Greetings oh great and powerful dragon from the Eastern World, I offer my humblest service to you?’_

The dragon man snorted and raised an eyebrow.

_ <That would do nicely, yes.> _

“Oh my gods.”

< _That will do as well. >_

“Are you talking inside my head?”

The dragon rolled his eyes and then turned over- the movement appeared to be accomplished without him actually using his limbs to do so- and grew still. John didn’t try to disturb him again; he merely lay there and stared at that bare expanse of back. Eventually gooseflesh appeared, and it was so utterly human that John relaxed a great deal and gently pulled up the blankets to cover them both. Once he’d done that he saw no reason to leave the light on so he clicked it off and fell asleep remarkably fast.

John awoke to an empty bed and the firm idea that he’d had a very odd and quite possibly homosexual dream.

_Or would it count as bestiality since I dreamt I slept next to a dragon? Or not since he was in human form?_

John staggered into the living room/kitchen of his efficiency and proceeded to make an extremely strong cup of coffee.

_ <Tea for me, thanks.> _

“Mhm,” John replied automatically, and then jumped. He turned around to find the pale naked figure sprawled out on his couch, his fingertips touching in an apparently deep state of thought and one leg toppled off the side. John had the oddest urge to go over and fix his leg, so he did, only wondering after what had level of insanity had goaded him to _touch_ the man.

_ <Two sugars.> _

“Sure. Yeah. Okay. Will you be staying long?”

No answer.

John headed into the kitchen to make the tea, added a breakfast scone out of courtesy, and delivered both to the coffee table. He then fetched his cup of coffee, poured in enough cream to cool it, and downed the entire mug despite the protests of his stomach. After taking a couple of breaths he glanced back to see the dragon-man sipping his tea with his legs crossed at the ankles underneath the coffee table and a bored look on his face.

John grabbed himself a breakfast scone and dropped into his comfortable old chair. He pulled the blanket off the back and offered it to the young man, but he was ignored so he draped it back over the chair again.

“Would you like a robe? A shirt? … Some pants?”

No answer.

A knock on John’s door startled him and he excused himself to answer it. A posh gentleman holding a brolly and smirking down his nose at him stared John down until he backed up a pace and let him enter unannounced.

“Well, isn’t this humble, will you be staying long?” The auburn gentleman asked the room at large.

“Ah, sorry? Do I know you?”

The man turned smartly on his heels and gave John a studying look before smirking once more and extending a hand.

“Mycroft Holmes, the elder brother to your uninvited house guest. Unless you _did_ invite him?” The raised eyebrow seemed to imply he damned well better not have.

“Look, I’m not sure what you think is going on here,” John started, refusing the offered hand, “but I don’t know your brother and I didn’t invite _either_ of you in.”

“Oh? You aren’t the young doctor who pulled him from the Thames after our cousin gave him a thrashing?”

“I… yes, that was me, but…”

“Yet you did not invite him here?”

“Well, I… I didn’t know who he was _to_ invite him. I still don’t, other than that he’s a Holmes.”

“ _Sherlock_ Holmes,” Mycroft supplied, “And the first Holmes in three hundred years to show dragon traits. We’re quite proud, though his presenting as a Chinese dragon is a surprise. Apparently a very great grandmother on our mother’s side had an affair with a Chinese emperor while on an ambassadorial mission with her husband; it was all quite hushed up and the child never showed traits or even looked Chinese; my several times great grandfather was inclined to believe the offspring his own and so did not disinherit her. My parents were unaware of this potential inheritance when marrying, or they might have made some efforts to prepare us for the possibility. So you see, the trait is descended from both distant English monarchy and Chinese dynasty, but presents as a rather plain looking Chinese dragon. His own children, or even mine or my brother’s, may present as English, Chinese, or no kind of dragon at all. Sometimes these things skip generations, you know.”

“Yes, apparently.”

“You don’t know why he’s here, do you?” Mycroft asked with a smug grin.

“Coffee? Tea?” John offered, deciding he’d rather follow courtesy than answer that arrogant question.

“Tea, thank you. Has he spoken to you?”

“Not so much,” John replied, turning to put the kettle on again.

“Has he _communicated_ with you?” Mycroft amended, his voice oily with intent.

John paused at that, wondering if he should reply. Something told him no.

“Sorry, but I don’t understand your question. He hasn’t said a word.”

“Sherlock hasn’t done since he first transformed a month ago. We’ve tried everything, even professional counsel. He appears to be in some state of shock.”

“Why was he fighting with an English dragon?”

“They don’t like him,” Mycroft replied, “Most people don’t once they get to know him, but the dragons we’ve encountered take particular offense to him. We presented him to the Queen, of course, but she will have nothing to do with him. He’s a member of Chinese royalty, not English, and there hasn’t been a Chinese monarchy since 1912. While there are descendents, they live largely ordinary lives and do not publicly display traits when they inherit them. Some believe they no longer carry them at all, but this has been proven untrue.”

“So he’s got no official title or anything?”

“Nothing besides that which my family carries. He’s the third son of a country squire, so you can imagine what that amounts to. Our eldest brother holds the family seat. Sherlock _was_ attending University, but has since dropped out. I dabble in politics, myself.”

Sherlock snorted and John glanced sideways at him, but the kettle began to sing so he turned his attention to that.

“Milk, sugar?”

“None thank you.”

Mycroft accepted is tea and placed himself in John’s chair, leaving John to rescue his scone from the wrong end of the table and sit down beside Sherlock. This placed Sherlock in between the two of them and the lad evidently decided to show his favoritism by putting his now empty teacup down in it’s saucer and lying down with his head in John’s lap. John chose to pretend this was normal and held up his plate to make sure he didn’t drop crumbs on the dragon-man.

“You are certain he hasn’t communicated with you in any way?”

“Other than rolling his eyes and snorting at me like I’m a fool? No, none at all,” John lied, though he still didn’t know why.

The man’s face became cold and forbidding of a sudden, “If you have taken advantage of him, I assure you your death will be swift and quite painful.”

A chill went up John’s spine, but he merely placed his food down on the table and laid a suddenly possessive hand on Sherlock’s bare shoulder.

“Sherlock, have I taken advantage?” John asked with mock concern while meeting the intense gaze of Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock snorted again.

Mycroft frowned down at him animatedly, but there was hardly anything either could do about the immovable creature. Mycroft placed his unfinished tea in it’s dish and stood.

“I’ll be checking up on you from time to time,” Mycroft stated firmly, “You will inform me of any… changes that occur.”

“No, I’m afraid I won’t,” John stated firmly, carding his hand through Sherlock’s hair just to aggravate the gentleman.

“I can provide you with monetary compensation…”

“No.”

< _Are you thick? >_

“I could make it worth your while,” Mycroft continued.

“You really couldn’t.”

< _You could buy me better tea. >_

“I only seek information. Nothing indiscreet, nothing you’d feel _uncomfortable_ with. Just tell me what he’s up to,” Though Mycroft was clearly negotiating with him, there was no pleading tone in the inscrutable man’s voice.

< _And edible scones. >_

“Why?” John asked, directing his question to both without making that obvious.

< _Because we can split it. >_

“I worry about him. Constantly.”

“That’s nice of you,” John replied, again speaking to both without indicating he was doing so.

“We have what you might call a _difficult_ relationship, but I _am_ concerned for him.”

“No.”

< _Stubborn fool. >_

“You’re very loyal _very_ quickly,” Mycroft scowled.

“No, I’m not,” John told them both, “I’m just _not_ interested.”

Mycroft frowned and pulled a book from his pocket, “’Trust issues’, it says here.”

< _What’s that? >_

“What’s that?” John asked, echoing Sherlock.

“Could it be you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes? A wayward dragon?”

“Who says I trust him?”

“You come from an abusive home, your parents both alcoholics and your young sister showing signs of the same. You’ve made your way in the world so far, but your own supervisors are concerned you won’t stay long despite your success. They feel you have a wandering soul,” Mycroft read, and showed signs of continuing, but John cut him off.

“Are we done?” John asked coldly.

“You tell me,” Mycroft Holmes calmly shut his book of secrets and left the flat without further conversation.

John sat still and stiff, waiting for Sherlock to get up and leave as well. He didn’t move. John reached down and stroked those silken curls again, but eventually he had to rise to get dressed for his shift at the hospital. Sherlock seemed to sense this and simply shifted off of him, gliding to his feet and stretching gorgeously. John had never had a reason to find the male form attractive, but if this continued he could see himself drooling after one Sherlock Holmes on a regular basis.

John stepped back out of his bedroom to a dragon-less living room, but still _felt_ Sherlock’s presence. He glanced around curiously, but even the ajar bathroom door revealed no naked young man or serpentine dragon.

Deciding he’d seek him out later, John headed for the doorway and felt a sudden weight on his shoulder. He glanced over; expecting to find Sherlock’s hand holding him back, and instead came face to face with a small dragon’s… face.

John jumped and yelped, dodging uselessly, and distinctly heard laughter in his head. Sherlock had _shrunk_ himself down and was perched on his shoulder.

“Well, joining me for a day of blood and feces, are you?” John warned.

No answer.

_Typical_ , John thought in annoyance, and headed downstairs.

John unchained his bike from the storage in the basement, carried it up to the first floor, and ducked out the door. He thought the dragon might fly once he started peddling, but the lazy thing just wrapped himself around John’s neck like a scarf. The weight was negligible so John just ignored him – and the resulting stares – and hurried the three blocks to work.

John entered the A&E with some trepidation, but while he got numerous looks, no one seemed comfortable actually asking him what a small dragon was doing on his shoulder all day. The patients all stared at him in awe and were oddly subdued. John found himself working fast and efficiently all day, an odd sort of energy thrumming through him, and his patients seemed to perk up in his presence. At one point a man was seizing and his entrance into the room _stopped_ it entirely. The staff parted for him as though he had attained godhood and he quickly stabilized the man before rushing off to the next catastrophe.

John ended his double shift by collapsing onto his sofa and staring in wonder at the dragon perched on his belly. He blinked, the weight changed, and a very naked, very human looking Sherlock sat astride him. He stared down at him blankly before hopping off his hips and heading into the kitchen to rummage around. John’s stomach protested loudly at the single break he’d taken and the sub he’d inhaled a good six hours ago. Sherlock hadn’t eaten all day.

“Do you want me to make something?” John asked, but the lad returned with a menu for Thai in hand, “Oh, perfect! I could eat a dozen pints.”

John ordered, his eyes automatically traveling to what he assumed Sherlock wanted, and happily pulled a beer out of the fridge to start with. He probably shouldn’t have downed even a few sips on an empty stomach, but after the odd day he’d had he needed a bit of liquid courage. He dug out his computer and keyed up some educational material he’d been reading on dragons since yesterday, but it felt rude to read it in front of Sherlock so he looked up some medical references instead.

There it was, plain as day. His fingers seemed to have led him there. He was still gaping at the information when the buzzer went off and Sherlock nudged him with his foot to go answer the door. He accepted the food, paid the man by card, and returned to collapse on his chair and stare at the long limbed creature once more stretched out on his sofa. He put Sherlock’s food down on the table and dove into his own while thinking over what he’d read.

_Web MD  
Dragons have been known to aid the healing process of both mental and physical afflictions merely by being present. While the exact cause of this effect is not known, it has been observed enough to push it from the realm of science fiction and into scientific theory. Most believe that the dragon’s breath is the cause, and that it is related to the same chemical process that allows them to breathe out elements. Since dragons revert to their human state at death and no living dragon has ever allowed itself to be studied, we may never know the exact cause of either phenomenon. _

Chapter 3: Tour of Duty

_Encyclopedia Britannica: Rare Abilities of Dragons  
Some dragons have the ability to use telepathy with those they have enthralled (See also: Effects of Thrall). The most notable of rare abilities is hypnotism, which appears to be unrelated to thrall; the victim will perform a set task and then go about their lives without ever knowing they had done something out of the ordinary. Queen Victoria outlawed the use of hypnotism by members not actively ruling the country during the end of her reign (see also: Dragon Laws and Restrictions). _

_Other noteworthy rare abilities are the ability to camouflage itself to look like its surroundings, ability to go without sleep, food or drink for extended periods of time, and the ability to teleport. The last ability has not appeared for many centuries and some believe it to be myth._

The requests started the next morning when he was called into his supervisor’s office and asked to take more shifts. They wanted him to tour the cancer ward, as well. Not work it, just walk around it: same with the children’s ward. It was all phrased quite politely in an ‘if you wouldn’t mind terribly’ sort of way. John stammered that he didn’t think he could work more hours (he left the ‘legally’ out of it) but that he’d try to take time to walk the wards if they wanted him to.

Sherlock remained uncommunicative on his shoulder.

A man in military uniform walking up, introducing himself as Major Dartmoor, and asking if he could join John and ‘his companion’ interrupted their lunch at a nearby restaurant the next day. They were eating outside in order to enjoy the unseasonably warm weather and Sherlock had uncharacteristically had John order a sandwich for him as well. He wasn’t eating it, but he was wrapped around it as though to guard it, which was garnering some amused looks.

“I’ll be happy to pick up the tab, as well,” Major Dartmoor smiled from ear to ear.

“I’m sorry, why?” John stammered.

< _Free food, John. What is_ wrong _with you? >_

“I’d be delighted,” John corrected.

The uniformed man sat with a grin and a nod towards Sherlock as though he knew he’d been the cause of the accepted invitation.

“Will you be joining us as well?” Major Dartmoor asked, but Sherlock didn’t even lift his head.

“He doesn’t talk much… well… at all,” John stammered, recalling the odd Holmes brother and his inquisition.

“No, but he speaks through you, doesn’t he?”

John decided to poke at his salad instead of respond. Sherlock took that moment to drop into the chair beside him, transform back into his human form, and pick up his sandwich to take a healthy bite. John glanced around in consternation, but aside from a few admiring glances no one made a fuss about his nude companion. He hoped a constable didn’t pass by. Dragons were known to be law unto themselves, but he wasn’t sure how it would be treated since Sherlock wasn’t technically royalty. Prince William could sit at a café butt-ass naked and eat lunch, but Sherlock might be a different story all together.

“You’re probably wondering why I’ve joined you,” The Major stated after ordering a salad for himself.

“A bit, yes,” John replied nervously. Sherlock continued to eat enthusiastically.

“It’s because of your companion here, of course.”

“Yes, I’d guessed that part.”

“You see I’m aware you’re a doctor-“

< _You’re wearing a doctor’s coat, of course he’s aware you’re a doctor. >_

John did his best not to grin.

“-And as it happens the Queens Army is in need of doctors to aid in her efforts in Afghanistan and Iraq.”

“Oh. I… I’m being drafted?” John asked aghast.

“No! Goodness, no, we’re looking for volunteers!” The man consoled immediately.

“Oh, well, that’s good, I suppose, but what’s Sherlock got to do with this? You want to recruit him, too?”

“In a way. We’ve found members of the lesser nobility often want to make themselves useful. Some of the Queens more distant cousins have served this way as well, and still do today.”

“I see, you want his healing ability on the battlefield.”

“Never in direct combat, but yes. We want you and – Sherlock was it? – to be a part of the largest MASH unit in Afghanistan. You’d get a chance to serve our country, afterwards you’ll tour other countries and see a bit of the world, and you’ll be making an honest difference in this man’s war.”

John felt that wandering streak in him stir, the same one that had sparked up whenever his father had gotten drunk and chased him out of the house. The one that said ‘leave and don’t come back, just start walking’. He glanced aside at Sherlock, but the man was no help. He’d finished his sandwich and was stealing bits of John’s salad.

“We’ll pay off your college loans,” Major Dartmoor stated firmly.

“Done,” John stuck out his hand and the man shook it firmly.

“Welcome to the Army, son.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Promises, John found, were something the army only occasionally kept. They paid off his debt as promised, but after a few years he found himself being placed in more and more dangerous situations. He might have worried, especially where Sherlock was concerned, but his dragon friend defended him effortlessly. Bullets could not pierce dragon skin and John and his comrades found themselves hiding behind him more than once. Sherlock never grew larger than twelve feet and was no thicker than his human chest span, so there wasn’t much to hide behind, but in war you made due.  Bombs, poison, and gasses _could_ harm a dragon if set off closely enough, so John was still paranoid enough about Sherlock’s safety to take his training seriously and ask for more whenever possible. He soon became the best shot in his troop and was much praised despite being ‘only a medic’.

It was during one rather endless feeling assignment that John’s relationship with Sherlock took a sudden odd turn. They were part of an all male squad, how it had fallen that way John had no idea since the army wasn’t short on female recruits, but there they were without a soft voice to speak to. They were on an assignment that required they escort a caravan carrying major supplies from one city to the next back and forth over and again. The caravan had no women in it, and they never entered either of the cities; they were to walk the caravan to the gates and stop there. In short, they saw absolutely no women for the entire several months that this assignment lasted. Just glaring desert, dusty jeeps, sweaty men, sweaty animals, and sweaty naked Sherlock. Sherlock had been assigned a uniform. John had it stowed in a backpack. John couldn’t wear it because it was Sherlock’s measurements and the man was tall and thin. Sherlock didn’t wear it because he was Sherlock.

By day Sherlock was in his dragon form, which garnered much respect from the locals and his confederates at large. At night, when they made camp and the fires and talk sprang up, Sherlock would stroll about in his birthday suit with absolutely no cares in the world. John was aware of his own reactions first, but when he started seeing others leering at Sherlock, he pulled him aside.

They were inside their own tent, a larger one they had traded in for their two smaller tents when it became obvious Sherlock would _not_ sleep on his own, and sitting side by side on their single sleeping roll. Sherlock still slept naked and pressed quite securely against John’s backside, which of late had become an exercise in torture.

“Listen, I know you’re some sort of free and natural thing, but there’s not a lick of woman flesh around and… well not to inflate your head more than it already is, but you’re very pretty.”

Sherlock smirked and John felt himself blush.

“Damn it, you know what I mean! You’re going to get raped.”

Sherlock gave him a rather naughty look, glanced him up and down, and shifted his bare hips and shoulders in an inviting gesture. His plump pink tongue slowly moistened his full lips and John was on him before rationality could tell him to stop. Sherlock was instantly in dragon form, though only a six foot long one this time, and John found himself lips to scaly shoulder instead of plump lips. John leaned back and scowled at him. Sherlock dripped his head and curled his dragon lips into a sneer.

“That was rotten of you, you know that? This is exactly what I mean. It isn’t right mucking about with soldier’s heads. We’re bloody lonely out here.”

Sherlock transformed back and John tossed himself down on the bedroll with his back to him. Sherlock’s fingers danced along his shoulder and he shivered despite his indignation. John’s mind flew to the few of his mates who he knew swung both ways. It wasn’t much talked about, but their tents had been visited often of late. He knew one of them had a girlfriend and wouldn’t do anything on the side, but the other two had been known to offer a hand job in exchange for snacks. That was, of course, if the rumors were true. John was just wondering if he was willing to part with the cookies his mother had sent him when he felt an odd fluttering of panic in the back of his mind. He had long started to associate this with Sherlock’s thoughts, and while it was usually closed off to him, at moments like this it was wide open. John sat up in concern, well aware that the last time he’d felt this Sherlock had seen someone sneaking up on him from behind. The feelings had come before even the telepathic warning had.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” John asked, but Sherlock gave him a blank stare and raised an eyebrow as though he didn’t know what he was talking about, “I _felt_ that, Sherlock. Quit being a berk. What’s wrong?”

Sherlock lay down, stretching in that fluid way he had, and displaying his body like a bloody whore. John wanted to pin him down and lick every inch of his body before fucking him raw. It was the first time he’d let his mind wander _quite_ that far and the primal desire alarmed him. He immediately scurried out of the tent in search of Private Higgins.

Private Higgins was surprised to see him and even more surprised by his fumbling request.

“Look, I’ve heard rumors, and if they’re wrong I’m _really_ sorry, but if they’re right then I’d like to… ah… trade, if you don’t mind… and it’s not an order,” John amended quickly, fully aware that the differences in their rank could bring him stronger punishment then engaging in what amounted to prostitution.

“Well… they’re true, but… I mean… what about… I don’t want to piss off your dragon friend, you know?” Private Higgins looked ready to flee his own tent at the idea.

“Oh, what, Sherlock?” John blinked in surprise, “Oh, no, we’re not a couple.”

“Oh!” The Private looked suitably surprised.

“Do people think that?”

“Well, he does sleep in your tent, you’ve only been seen carrying one bedroll, and he’s always naked.”

“You do pose a convincing argument,” John sighed and rubbed his hands across his face, “Would it help any if I explained that he’s an utter arsehole and won’t let me near his?”

< _John, come at once, if convenient. >_

“Damn, that’s… I think I’d go mental,” Higgins stated with wide, sympathetic eyes.

“Sounds about right,” John laughed lightly.

“I mean… he’s gorgeous! Not that you’re not… well… I mean… he’s _really_ bloody beautiful.”

“Yeah, he is,” John snorted, rolling his eyes a bit.

< _If inconvenient, come anyway._ >

_Coming is_ exactly _what I have in mind,_ John thought hungrily.

“So… you’re willing to settle for me?” Higgins laughed lightly, but gave him a flirtatious smile anyway.

“ _Very_ willing, and ‘settle’ isn’t the word I’d use for it.”

Higgins leaned forward with half lidded eyes and his own set of full moist lips.

< _John. Don’t. >_

John was out of the tent and back in his own before he quite knew what was happening. Sherlock hadn’t moved. He was still face down on their bedroll looking for the entire world like a model in a porno waiting for the scene to start.

“If I touch you, will you let me this time?” John asked, his voice tense with anger.

No answer.

“Damn you to hell, Sherlock, I was trying to _get off_.”

No answer.

“You just waltz into my life, settle down like you belong, and what the fuck do I get out of it?!” John demanded, unaware that he was shouting now, “I get fucking _shot at_ , is what I get. I get to tour the same bloody stretch of desert _over_ and _over_ again. I get your pale naked arse pressed up against me _all bloody night_ with nothing to show for it but blue balls and a morning stiffy I could probably open a tin with!”

Sherlock snorted and that was about the last straw for John, who thrashed his way out of his tent with the intention of walking off his frustration. A few lads were standing about, obviously listening, and John flushed in embarrassment at how loud he must have been. He hurried off, ignoring the chuckles, and passed a confused Higgins who gave him a sympathetic look whenever they spoke again for the rest of the time John knew him.

 

Chapter 4: The Effects of Thrall

_Encyclopedia Britannica: Effects of Thrall  
Thrall can be a complex issue simply because of the effects it has. Since most dragons are controlling they can be considered the decision maker, but often they give the human(s) in their thrall free reign, preferring to be worshiped from a distance. This has made them excellent leaders over the years, because the human(s) in their thrall are important to them in a familial way. However, the human(s) under thrall may be completely unaware and become emotionally or mentally distressed when they find their behavior has changed after contact with a dragon. Some dragons have the ability to communicate telepathically with their thrall victims, and may use it to control every aspect of their lives obsessively. Since obsessive-compulsive behavior is a norm for descendents of dragons – including those not displaying outward traits – this can become a sort of co-dependent neurosis for both parties. _

_Bonding is possible for victims of a thrall, which includes a more intense relationship with the dragon, occasionally related to sex but always related to a deep emotional attachment. While dragons almost exclusively breed with humans due to their low gene pool options, some choose never to mate at all and have displayed asexual tendencies. This behavior is believed to be the reason they are rare today. It also causes distress for the bond victims as they occasionally find themselves unable to be sexually attracted to someone else._

John had given up hiding his wanking from Sherlock and sneaking it when the bastard wasn’t awake (rare) or around (even more rare). In fact he had given up on the idea he was ever going to get a leg over with anyone ever again and was now masturbating, not only in front of him, but while staring at him openly as he lay stretched out naked and lounging somewhere. Instead of being repulsed by this behavior as John had expected, the dragon preened and displayed himself for John’s fantasies. If John moaned his name he smiled encouragingly and would run his hands over himself in imitation of the thoughts flashing through John’s mind. It was almost sex, but he was never allowed to touch Sherlock and Sherlock had no interest in touching him.

Today had been an awful one. Their caravan had been attacked and several people had died, though even more had ended up in John and Sherlock’s care. The Dragon had taken to transforming to human and helping when needed, even picking up a scalpel and performing surgery, though John had no idea if his knowledge of such were from John or his own life.

After patching up the survivors, decontaminating his hands and arms, and listening to his CO call in their defeat and request evac, he staggered into his tent to wash himself the only way possible outside of the OR – with a damp flannel and a good deal of no-rinse soap. He hated the stuff – it stank and left him feeling gritty and miserable even after the damp flannel. Sherlock, as usual, sat down and watched his every movement from the moment he stripped to the moment he drew on a (sort of) clean shirt and pants. John slipped outside the tent and rinsed off the flannel as best he could while trying to conserve water, and then he slipped back in and handed it to Sherlock to do the same. The dragon’s face said it all – he wasn’t going to put that bit of cloth anywhere on his body.

“Well, unless you can teleport you’d better get over yourself. You stink and you’re not sleeping next to me like that. Wash. Now.”

Sherlock’s eyes looked mutinous, but he did as told and John devoured the sight of him stroking hands and flannel over his body as though he were the water John was frantic for.

“When we get back to civilization,” John started, as he often did, “I’m going to take the longest fucking shower of my life. Alone. Then I’m going to take the second longest with you.”

Sherlock smiled his approval, tossed John’s last (relatively) clean flannel out into the desert despite the man’s scolding, and curled up to sleep. John paused a moment, then pulled out his cock for a wank. He didn’t care how gritty he felt – he needed to relieve some tension. As usual, Sherlock knew without being told and rolled over, an enthusiastic look on his face.

He nearly drooled as the dragon-man started his pretty little peacock dance. Sherlock started by stretching his body, arching off the sleep roll as every muscle bunched and pulled taut. Then he rolled over and arched like a cat – arse in the air and arms extended above his body. From his position at the bottom of the sleep roll John could see between his lush cheeks to his dusky, hairless pucker. He groaned, licking the palm of his hand despite the taste and stroking his cock faster.

_I’d give anything to bury my face between those perfect orbs and eat your arse out._

Sherlock jumped.

Well. That was unusual.

Sherlock rolled over with a surprised look on his face and stared down between his own splayed legs with a look of complete confusion on his face. John followed his eyes and moaned at the sight of Sherlock’s half erection. He’d never seen the dragon even _partially_ aroused before and he hungrily reached out to touch. Sherlock transformed into a tiny dragon and fled the tent.

“Damn!” John snarled, and pounded his fist on the ground. He _knew_ better than to touch! “Damn it all to hell!”

John threw himself down on his back and fisted himself frantically, but his erection was wilting despite the tightness in his bollocks. It was as if…

_Sherlock, are you_ willing _my hard on away?!_

< _Go to sleep, John. >_

_I’m tense and I need to get off!_

_ <Go to sleep, John.> _

_Damn you to hell!_

_ <Do I need to tell you again?> _

John’s eyes grew heavy and his legs went lax, he sensed more than saw Sherlock slipping back into the tent and tucking him into their bedroll. His dragon’s warmth stretched out beside him in the growing chill of the night and he wrapped himself around him eagerly. He nuzzled his hair, breathing in his natural scent instead of the powdery shampoo he’d refused to use on it. It was surprisingly soft and not a greasy at all. He must have used the sand to wash it again. He’d seen him do that on occasion and knew some of the locals did so as well.

“Love you,” John muttered as his limbs became too much of a burden to lift.

Sherlock turned to face him and pressed close, entwining their limbs and pressing John’s face to his neck. John sighed in contentment – all thoughts of lust gone – and simply drifted in this oddly euphoric state. Sherlock sighed and gave him a gentle squeeze. The last thing John recalled was hearing his name whispered by a voice that rasped as though rarely used.

Chapter 5: Shell Shocked

_Websters Dictionary:_  
asex·u·al - adjective  
Definition of ASEXUAL

_1a : lacking sex or functional sex organs <asexual plants> _

_2a : involving or reproducing by reproductive processes (as cell division, spore formation, fission, or budding) that do not involve the union of individuals or gametes <asexual reproduction> <an asexual generation> _

_b : produced by asexual reproduction <asexual spores> _

_3a : devoid of sexuality <an asexual relationship> _

 

“Sherlock?” John called, and watched the lazy dragon’s head pivot towards him, “How do asexual dragons reproduce?”

No answer.

“See, it doesn’t make much sense. Why would a species evolve to be asexual at all? It’s detrimental to the survival of said species. It doesn’t add up. You’d have to have a way to reproduce asexually if some of you are going to be asexual. I mean… can you just… divide yourself? Or is the definition ‘asexual’ wrong? Could it be that dragons aren’t getting what they need from humans? Or is that the problem in the first place? Is the breeding with humans producing unviable mutations? Like a mule?”

Sherlock’s obsidian orbs narrowed dangerously and John knew he’d insulted the fickle creature.

“Well, if you answer me, I won’t have to go around assuming you’re related to the ass you behave like,” John snarked.

Sherlock left. He simply pushed off the rock he was sunbathing on (who sunbathes in the bloody desert?) flapped up a veritable sandstorm with those wings, and took off. John glared up at his retreating form once he’d gone and sighed in frustration.

_I’m only trying to understand so I can make you happy._

No answer.

John stood and headed towards the camp again, sniffing the air and hoping the beans being cooked were edible this time. They were supposed to have been pulled out two days ago. They were trapped where they were; their vehicles had been destroyed in the raid, their food supplies were low, they had only the water they were finding, and John had buried three more men in shallow graves that morning before the sun rose. Sherlock had helped, thankfully, because John couldn’t afford to break a sweat. They had too little water to replenish it.

The mortar landed first; something resembling a pipe flew out of the sky towards John and he barely made it behind a damaged truck before the damn thing went off. His shouts of warning were basically useless. The gunfire came after and there was absolutely nowhere defensible. They were swarming down the dunes towards them from all angles. He knew instinctively that Sherlock was on his way back, but in the same thought he knew he wouldn’t get there in time. Half his remaining unit was already dead around him and his weapon was empty. He didn’t even remember firing it, but that wasn’t unusual for him; the body count told him he’d been accurate enough.

John was pressed against the same damn jeep, as three men slowly approached him. He heard one of them say dragon in Dari – he’d heard it enough to recognize it now. There seemed to be a debate going over whether or not he should be killed. John didn’t see anyone on his side moving. Finally one of the men raised his gun. Several things happened at once; John decided to go down fighting and rushed the man, one of the would-be shooter’s compatriots tackled him, and Sherlock came screaming out of the sky like a bomb himself. The gun went off, John was thrown backwards, and boiling water rained down from the sky on the three men. John lay on his side, feeling heat drain out of his body as his spilling blood left him cold despite the desert heat, and stared in horror at the three Middle Eastern men. They were dead- and thank gods for it- their eyes popped like grapes, their skin blistered and cracked, and their mouths open in soundless screams that revealed their swollen tongues.

Sherlock stood over them, hissing in outrage with steam billowing from the corners of his mouth. He stepped closer to inspect John’s wound, transforming effortlessly in the blink of an eye. John had never seen him look so worried, and justifiably so since he was wounded alone in the middle of the desert. Just before John passed out he thought to himself that with an ability like that, at least Sherlock could make him a decent cup of tea no matter where they were.

XXXXXXXXXXX

When John opened his eyes it was to find the stars above him. He blinked in confusion, pain lancing through his body. He was covered with a blanket, but he could tell just by blinking that his face was badly sun burnt. Turning his head – a painful experience in and of itself – resulted in a blacked out blur that he instinctively knew was Sherlock.

Something wasn’t right, and it wasn’t just that he was injured and still not rescued. Something was wrong with Sherlock. He knew it. He could _feel_ it. John pushed himself up using the arm that didn’t feel as though it had been ripped off and glanced down in the poor light to see his wound had been _fucking cauterized_.

_Gods. Well. That’s a bit not good. Third degree burns inside and out…_

John dragged himself up; arm hanging useless as his broken shoulder blades ground together and his vision momentarily went white. He had to stabilize it or he’d faint before he got them both help. John managed to tug his belt off, sat back down so if he fainted he wouldn’t fall far, and wrapped his belt around his arm and torso. He looped it and pulled it to, but couldn’t manage to buckle it. He didn’t realize he was crying until the sob shook him hard enough to make his vision blur again.

_Deep breath._

_Another deep breath._

_Sherlock needs you._

John pushed himself back up again, arm less of a disaster now it was somewhat immobile, and staggered the few feet to Sherlock’s side. He knelt down and peered at his friend, but got no reaction from him. He was breathing but still, and a touch to his face let John know his scales felt all wrong.

_Dry. Papery. Peeling. He’s dehydrated? He spat boiling water! Of course he’s dehydrated! Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit!_

John tried to call to him verbally since he wasn’t responding to John’s thoughts, but his voice was nonexistent. His mouth tasted like desert and felt just as dry. John pulled himself upwards and staggered around. He found a canteen and downed the water, needing to keep himself going first, and called out uselessly for survivors. He didn’t fear the enemy returning. He could still smell their cooked flesh. John found another few canteens and headed back over to Sherlock, but couldn’t find a way to get him to drink it. He opened one and poured a bit on his snout, hoping it would revive him, but got no reaction. Instead he looked for the radio. The CO’s tent was still up and John crawled inside to start up the radio. It fizzled and sparked, but he got through. His voice scratched and cracked as badly as the radio as he delivered another distress call.

Apparently their rescue was already supposed to have been there to get them and returned by now; they were MIA. John resisted the urge to beg for help and instead asked when a helicopter could be sent.

“There’s only two of us left, as near as I can tell, over,” John croaked.

“What do you mean, as near as you can tell? I thought you were the squad’s surgeon? Over.”

“It’s dark and I’m badly wounded. I searched for survivors, but most of our gear is gone and I’m barely conscious. My mate here is out, and I don’t think he’ll make it through the night. Over.”

“We don’t have a copter to spare. I’m truly sorry Captain. You’re on your own until we can get someone out there. Over.”

John let go the button and let himself weep for a moment. No tears. That wasn’t good. He was badly dehydrated. For all he knew he wasn’t even having this conversation; it might be a hallucination.

< _Mycroft Holmes. >_

“Mycroft H-Holmes, over,” John choked into the talkie.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that. Say again? Over.”

“Mycroft Holmes. Contact Mycroft Holmes. Tell him…”

< _His brother won’t survive the night without rescue. >_

“His brother won’t survive the night without rescue. Over.”

“His rank?” Dispatch asked.

< _Fucking Queen of England. >_

_I can’t tell them that._

_ <Ambassador.> _

“Ambassador,” John sobbed.

Silence. So much silence that John wondered if he’d died. He lay down in the tent, too weak to crawl back to Sherlock, and thought of him around and around in circles. Sherlock laughing. Sherlock moping. Sherlock taking off in a strop. Sherlock writhing on the floor of his tent as though aroused when his dick remained utterly limp. For him, because it made John excited.

_Gods, I love you, you mad thing._

Silence. John sobbed into the darkness and waited for something, _anything_ to happen. Another assault. A rescue. The sunrise. A fucking cricket to churp.

_Anything but silence._

< _We’re not supposed to be asexual. For some of us, if we don’t meet the right person our bodies don’t work right. Sometimes we never meet the right person. >_

_How do you know if you do?_

_ <I suppose we respond sexually.> _

_That’s never happened between us. I suppose I’m not the right one for you._ John thought sadly.

_ <I don’t like not knowing something.> _

_We’ll find your person together. We’ll go looking for him or her._

_ <No. I don’t like not knowing how to kiss you. How to touch you.> _

_You don’t know how?_

_ <I’m… inexperienced.> _

_I’ll teach you._

_ <I’ll disappoint you. I’ve never disappointed you before.> _

_You couldn’t if you tried, though you have managed to frustrate, enrage, offend, dismay, and arouse me. Does that take the pressure off a bit?_

_ <Not really.> _ Sherlock sounded amused.

_I love you._

_ <I don’t know how to love. I don’t think I can. I just know how to own you.> _

_That’s fine. I’ll love you enough for both of us. It’s all fine._

They lay in silence for some time. John dozed, though he had no idea for how long. He was awoken by the sound of a helicopter. The tent he lay in fluttered in the gale the machine raised and collapsed on top of him. He couldn’t move. Stiffness had settled in and he was utterly spent; he thought he might be in shock. Voices shouted and called for him. John tried to shout back, but he wasn’t heard over the sound of the helicopter motor; his throat was too dry and his body too weak.

< _John! JOHN! They’re leaving without you! JOHN! JOHN! >_

_Tell them where I am._

< _I can’t! John! Shout! >_

_I can’t._

_ <JOHN!!> _

_Goodbye, Sherlock._

Darkness. Complete darkness. The helicopter’s sound faded away. Cold. Alone.

The smell of rotting flesh as the sun rose and baked English and Afghani alike; death was the eternal equalizer. No man was above being devoured by sun, insect, or scavenger… all would become dust in the end. John could literally feel his lips cracking as the last of his body’s moister was sweated out. He thought the polyester of the tent might be melting against his flesh. He wondered if he would be mummified. The conditions seemed right. Would archeologists in the future dig him up and wonder at his wounds? Would they know a dragon had melted the skin around his wound to close it and keep him from bleeding to death, only to have him bake to death in the unforgiving Afghanistan desert?

Wind. It was nice. It cooled him even through the collapsed tent. Noise. A rushing, humming sound. Someone was shouting. The tent was being pulled off of him. More shouting. John tried to scream when they touched him – the pain was blinding – but all that came out was a dry hiss like two sheets of paper rubbing together.

Cold. No. Cool. Comfortable. He tried to move his head, but he was too weak. His eyes blinked open and a real _actual_ ceiling stared down at him. He was in a building- a cool, air conditioned building. He could feel stickiness on his face and the steady droopy feel of medicine in his veins. His shoulder ached, but it was a distant ache – likely held at bay by the same medicine that made him feel as if he was floating at sea.

< _I’ll get a doctor’s attention. >_

_I’m fine. I don’t need anything._

_ <You’ve been out for two days, probably longer if you count your stint under the tent. I’ll get a doctor.> _

John heard the scrape of a chair and was comforted by the fact Sherlock was mobile; it meant he wasn’t in terrible condition. A door opened and closed and someone leaned into John’s range of vision. His eyes were too tired to focus, so he just closed them.

“Good evening, can you tell me your name?”

John’s throat made a horrible dry croak. The bed was being raised and the room’s occupants came into view. Sherlock was hovering at the foot of the bed looking concerned. A pudgy doctor stood beside him looking the same, but smiling more.

“I can’t give you any liquids straight off, but we’ll just run this around your mouth.”

The doctor extended a sponge on a stick and John opened his mouth gratefully as the moisture gave him instant relief. It tasted vaguely minty. John licked his chapped lips, swallowed a few times and tried again.

“Chawn Wasson,” John croaked.

“Very good,” The doctor commended.

Sherlock snorted. The git.

The doctor asked him if he thought he could manage an ice chip and John nodded that he could. Sherlock took the cup of ice and hovered by him to slip them into his mouth whenever they melted. The doctor calmly pulled up a chair and explained the extent of his injuries. They weren’t catastrophic; it was really the dehydration and sunstroke that had truly harmed him. Sherlock’s solution of boiling his wound shut had worked to a degree, but infection had set in soon after. John would be getting a skin graft once the infection cleared up.

A week later John was finally allowed to stand for the first time. He slipped to the edge of the bed, watching Sherlock shift into a six-foot dragon form and crouch at the foot of the bed. Two nurses were on hand in case he toppled. John smiled cheerily at them, gave the prettier one a wink, and then pushed himself to his feet.

Pain. Instantaneous pain, shot up his left leg and with a yelp he staggered forward. The two nurses caught him and gently guided him back to the bed. John’s hand was shaking again - he’d noticed it but hadn’t mentioned it to anyone- in combination with the pain in his leg he was now terrified.

“Something’s happened to my back. Something that wasn’t caught before,” John insisted, as every bit of his medical degree screamed ‘nerve damage’.

“We’ll talk to the doctor,” The pretty nurse reassured him, giving him a pitying glance. They both urged him to lie back down and he stared down at Sherlock in horror as they left.

“I can’t walk.”

< _You’ll be fine. >_

“Sherlock. I. Can’t. Walk.”

< _The wound was in your shoulder. You’re probably just achy from too much bed rest. >_

John nodded, but didn’t respond. He was staring at his hand where it lay trembling on the sheet beside him. Loosing the ability to walk was nothing compared to loosing the ability to perform surgery, and a doctor’s steady hands were his entire life.

Sherlock walked around the bed to his left side and gripped his shaking hand hard enough to cause pain. John smiled up at him gratefully and was rewarded with a gentle, chaste kiss to his lips.

“Have you been bored?” John asked worriedly, and just for a chance to change the subject away from his recent injuries.

_ <No. There’s a mousy mortician who keeps me entertained. She lets me use her lab.> _

“Should I be jealous?” John laughed.

_ <You know I prefer men, if any gender at all. She’s a good thrall, though.> _

“Oh, another thrall? Do you have others besides she and I?” John asked nervously.

_ <Not yet.> _ Sherlock shrugged.

It wasn’t for another few days before he found out Sherlock was talking about his acquaintance Molly Hooper.

[CHAPTER 6-10](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/107438.html)


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

Chapter 6: Political Allies

When John woke up the next day it was to find Sherlock oddly missing and Mycroft sitting quietly in his usual chair. He didn’t look happy. John struggled to sit up before sighing in frustration.

“I don’t mean to be rude, and I’m sure you’re here about something important, but I’m not exactly in prime condition. You’ll probably want to leave for a few while a nurse takes care of me.”

“On the contrary, I am quite comfortable where I’m seated, but by all means: call in a nurse.”

So. That was the game of it. Humiliate John Watson. Very well. John was a doctor, he knew the procedures inside and out and he’d had to perform them himself in med school. John rang the call button and a nurse stepped in.

“I need to use the toilet and wash up,” John informed her calmly. She smiled, nodded, and left to get assistance.

“You’ll be here about Sherlock, then?” John asked.

“Oh, this can wait until you’re more comfortable,” Mycroft smiled benevolently.

John really _wasn’t_ comfortable. His bladder was full and so were his bowels. Unfortunately, he was considered a fall risk, so that meant they’d be bringing a tray and a male urinal for him. Two nurses entered, one with the required aids and the other with a basin and wash materials. John was at least given the dignity of using the urinal himself, but the bedpan they had to lever under him without his assistance as he’d been told not to put his weight on anything until the problem was determined.

While John relieved himself- _awkwardly_ \- Mycroft took the time to get up and stand at the foot of the bed where John would have an unbroken view of him. The bastard made eye contact with him whenever John nervously glanced up, and damn it all if he didn’t do that far too often.

Mycroft 1, John 0.

The second nurse meanwhile had started scrubbing John down. This was at least welcome since it had been a couple of days since this was last done and he was feeling repulsive. He still wanted a _real_ bloody shower, though, and he was annoyingly stuck with powder and sponge baths instead. To John’s horror he still couldn’t bend enough to wipe his own arse, a state owed to his shoulder and the damage around it, so the nurse had to do that for him, too. Mycroft didn’t laugh, but it was in his eyes. The smell in the room was horrible, owed to the cramped state of his bowels from being on his back for so long, but rather than cover his nose or leave the room the bastard simply made a face at John as though he’d produced a foul odor on purpose.

_Thank god Sherlock isn’t here._

_< I’m not _that _much of an arse. >_

_Thank you for not being that much of an arse. I take back most of the times I’ve called you one._

_< Do you want me to route him out?>_

_Nope. I’ll handle this on my own._

_< Suit yourself.>_

Once John was settled and the nurse had turned the bathroom fan on to help get the stench out of the room, John sat up a bit straighter and gave Mycroft his undivided attention.

“I thought I made myself clear. I thought I was quite kind, in fact, in allowing you to take Sherlock into battle with you.”

“We weren’t even supposed to _be_ in battle. We were supposed to be in a mobile hospital _away_ from the front lines,” John snapped irritably, “Where were you and your ridiculous influence then?”

“If you had not _requested_ …”

“I didn’t request anything! And I know Sherlock hasn’t! _He_ can’t even speak!”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, his head turned to the side.

“You made no request to be transferred to the front lines?”

“No. Of course not. Why would I risk Sherlock like that? I’m a _doctor_. Do you know how long I spent doing extra training? Hoping it would be enough? How many hours of sleep I lost? In the end, the only thing I could bloody do was call for _you!”_

John knew he was spitting venom at the wrong person, but it he was angry, hurt – quite possibly broken- and so very lonely. He wanted Sherlock, here in his arms, and not off someplace hiding from his brother. He wanted to hold him, talk to him, and perhaps even make love to him.

Mycroft stood and paced partway across John’s room, his phone to his ear and his voice soft.

“No,” Mycroft snapped into the phone, “Find out more. Something isn’t right here. He isn’t lying, of that I am certain.”

Mycroft ended the call and turned to give John another analyzing look.

Mycroft 1, John 1.

“You really spent your nights training to protect my brother?”

“Yes. Of course. How could you… You do know I’m under his _thrall_ don’t you? I might as well be his slave!”

“I was aware, but I didn’t realize _you_ were. In fact, it wouldn’t shock me to find you were a dragon as well and had _him_ under thrall. Sherlock’s behavior of late has been… unusual.”

“Well, I assure you I’m not responsible for it,” John snapped.

Mycroft was studying him again, looking down his nose as though John were an insect pinned to a wall. John wanted out of that bed. Instantly. His mind was screaming in cold rage at all of the circumstances that he couldn’t control. Everything from his trembling hand to Sherlock’s lacking libido.

An ear piercing scream rent the air and Mycroft jumped in alarm, rushing to the window faster than John had ever seen him move. Outside the hospital window, performing loops and intricate turns that would have been beautiful if it were not for his agonizing cries, was John’s very own dragon. Sherlock screamed and twisted as though in pain. Mycroft looked back at John, fear and worry in his eyes and his brow glistened with sweat.

“What’s wrong with him?” Mycroft asked, his voice filled with fera.

“He’s upset.”

“Clearly, but why? Is he in pain?”

“Not the physical kind, no,” John was calmer now, his anguish draining out of him with what little energy he had. He felt himself relaxing into the bed beneath him, his eyes growing heavy.

“What do you mean? What’s happened to him?”

Mycroft turned and fled the room, probably to go outside and try to speak directly to Sherlock, but he was wasting his time. John sighed in relief, his limbs too weak to raise even when a small dragon skittered up them and curled himself around John’s neck. His scales chaffed painfully, but John took comfort in his presence and dropped into a deep and dreamless sleep.

John woke to find the bed was being moved. Several nurses were hurrying around him, raising the bars and wrapping cords up so they wouldn’t pull. His IV bag was laid down beside him and he felt something cold flood his veins.

_This isn’t proper procedure…_ John wondered as the entire bed was rolled out the door and down the hall.

He fought sleep for several seconds, but whatever they’d shot into him was potent. John dropped into oblivion; his last thought was that Sherlock was still wrapped around his neck.

John woke in the same bed, but an entirely different location. The room was bare white, like hospitals, but the smells were all off. It smelled dank and underground. John felt panic curl through him, but immediately tried to pretend he was still asleep.

_Sherlock! Sherlock wake up and run! We’ve been abducted!_

John felt Sherlock sigh beneath him, < _Oh, shut up. >_

_Don’t make me use that corny ‘save yourself’ line._

Sherlock chuckled, but before John could tell him off the door opened quite loudly.

“Well, well, well, what have we got here?” A lilting Irish voice called out, “If it isn’t a boy and his dragon.”

John gave up his pretense at sleep and carefully pushed himself upright to face his enemy. A small man in a very sharp suit smiled at him from the doorway. Sherlock slipped down from his shoulder and transformed into a human; he was perched on the edge of John’s bed with one possessive hand on his thigh.

“Jim Moriarty. Hi! Don’t you have anything to say, Sherlock?” The man asked, “Any question’s to ask? Don’t you want to know how I did it?”

< _A system of bribes and threats, no doubt. > _

“A system of bribes and threats, no doubt,” John echoed without even thinking, his voice taking on Sherlock’s tone automatically.

“Oh, did you figure that out all by yourself, Johnny boy, or is Sherlock feeding you information? You know,” Moriarty continued without letting John answer, “You are a very difficult man to kill, John Watson. I nearly lost Sherlock just trying to get rid of you. So now I’m going to do it the easy way. Meet Colonel Sebastian Moran of the 1st Bangalore Pioneers. Aren't you going to salute him?"

A taller man stepped into the room, Irish as well but his skin was tanned and weathered to look more like leather - like John’s was from regular exposure to harsh sun. John’s mind scrambled to recall and… yes. This man had been at _several_ of his deployment areas.

“You recognize me?” Moran asked, sneering at John, “That’s fine. You won’t be living long enough to tell anyone about it.”

Moran raised his gun and Sherlock reared up, screaming in anger as he transformed from a tiny twelve-inch lizard to a whopping 12 feet of angry, clawed, fanged, bulletproof, dragon. John scrambled out of the wreck of the bed and pressed close to Sherlock’s body, knowing it was his only chance for survival. He didn’t even think about his leg.

“Oh, good!” Moriarty laughed, “But, aren’t you curious, Sherlock? Don’t you want to know who I am and how I got you and your friend into so much trouble?”

Sherlock stilled. John listened for all he was worth. If he were Moran he’d be…

John ducked to one side, around Sherlock’s torso, and kicked high and fast. Moran took his sadly bare foot to the face and stumbled back. John tackled him, but he proved faster and stronger than him and soon had John pinned beneath him. He slammed the butt of his gun into John’s head and the world spun and bucked like a bull. He heard a scream and Moran was knocked off of him, but it wasn’t by Sherlock.

It was the same dragon from above the Thames. That thin suited Moriarty man was an English (Irish?) dragon, and he was struggling violently with Sherlock. Sherlock had wrapped himself twice around the thicker dark green dragon’s torso and was squeezing him like a boa constrictor. Moriarty’s tail was ridged, almost like a fin, and it lashed back and forth, sluicing away the drywall away like an apple peel. Moriarty’s claws where trapped down by his side, but his teeth were free and once he realized his air was being cut off he leaned forward and sank his teeth into Sherlock’s body. They writhed on the floor as though it were a frying pan, their bodies barely touching it as each tried to get the other to let them go.

Moran was looking battered off to John’s left and had taken to pressing himself against the wall. He threw a terrified look to John, whom he mirrored, and they both tried to make themselves as small as possible as two gigantic legends fought in a far too small room. A tail lashed out and nearly crushed John’s scull. Sherlock’s paw took a chunk out of the wall to Moran’s left. Sherlock’s blood rained down on John and he screamed as it burned his skin- though it wasn’t boiling like his spit. John ducked and rolled out of the way. Moran had inched his way to a safer area and John dodged a tail and a leg before joining him.

“Stop them! They’ll kill each other!” John shouted, grabbing Moran’s vest and shaking him.

“What makes you think I can?” He snapped shoving John off.

Sherlock took notice and tried to hit Moran with his tail but missed, then he opened his mouth and John screamed in fear, throwing Moran in front of himself as a shield. The room filled with steam, so thick John choked on it, and inhuman screams rent the air. When it cleared both Moriarty and Moran were gone and the ground was a puddle of steaming hot water. John watched it inch towards him and backed away in fear, but Sherlock knocked the crumpled hospital bed towards him and he climbed on top of it. There was blood in the water, but how much of it was Sherlock’s and how much (if any) was Moriarty’s he had no idea.

“How badly are you hurt?”

< _I’m going to require medical attention, but it can wait until we get out of here. >_

Sherlock shrunk down and crossed to him. He was about the size of a horse and John climbed onto his back as quickly as he could. In the hall a trail of blood led in one direction. Sherlock sniffed the air and headed in the opposite.

“Are either of them dead?”

< _Unfortunetly, no. Moriarty got a shoulder-full of boiling water, but in his dragon form it probably didn’t do too much damage. Moran was burnt as well, but on his feet. I doubt he’ll be able to use them. He’s probably crawling away. >_

_“_ Moriarty wouldn’t carry him?”

_< I get the impression he doesn’t take care of his thralls.>_

John didn’t know what to say to that, and since Sherlock had grown bigger and was now traveling very quickly down the hall he decided to keep his mouth shut. Sherlock made a few sharp turns, had to shrink down and double back at one point, and then was inching his way carefully around a corner. He kept sniffing the air and looking about suspiciously.

_That man was in Afghanistan with us, but a Colonel can’t possibly have the authority to change our orders above Mycroft, so what's going on?_

Sherlock didn’t reply to him.

_I should have disobeyed. Mycroft is right. I put you in danger. I should have let them dishonorably discharge me._

No answer.

Shouting erupted somewhere off to the right and Sherlock took off to the left as quickly as he could. The sound of gunfire soon echoed through the labyrinthine halls and John groaned in defeat as they ended up back outside the busted doorway to the room they’d woken up in.

< _My head hurts. What the hell did they dose me with? >_

“You’re still loosing blood,” John informed as his hand suddenly touched a spot that burned and came away sticky from Sherlock’s shoulder, “I should walk. You don’t need an extra burden.”

Sherlock didn’t argue, which from Sherlock was _never_ a good thing, and John slipped down to his bare feet. He felt shaky, but that might have been from the adrenalin. Several armed men rounded the corner and Sherlock reared back, his mouth opening wide to drench them in boiling water, when he paused and dropped into human form. John let out a cry of relief as he saw Sherlock heading towards them in peaceful acceptance. They had to be Mycroft’s men. They were saved.

John sank to the ground in exhaustion, his shoulder throbbing as though it were on fire, and Sherlock doubled back to crouch beside him. His torso was covered in small puncture wounds, smaller than John had expected since his thick hide had protected him.

_How sharp are dragon teeth that they can pierce bullet proof hide?_

< _Very. >_

_That was rhetorical._

Sherlock snorted and accepted a blanket being thrown around his shoulders. The man who had done so leaned down and helped Sherlock to his feet while another did so with John. John’s arm was dragged around a pair of strong shoulders and he leaned against them gratefully. Sherlock shrunk down to a tiny dragon and pointed at John. A soldier obediently lifted him and placed him on John’s shoulders. John sighed contentedly. It took them no more than ten minutes to get back outside and when they did John gaped in shock. They weren’t in Britain anymore; mountains surrounded them.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Mycroft’s men got them out of Iran and evacuated them to the nearest base in Iraq where they were both seen by a medic. Mycroft joined them some hours later and he looked drawn and pale.

“You’ve no idea how close you both came to being dead,” Mycroft told them, “Moriarty and Moran got away, of course, and I doubt it’s the last we’ve seen of them.”

“Why _Iran_ ,” John asked in confusion.

“Because Sebastian Moran’s father is Sir Augustus Moran, CB, the British Minister to Persia. It was he who arranged your assignments to become increasingly more dangerous, stopped your relief from coming, and even arranged the raid that landed you two in hospital. In fact, I believe we’ll find he was the one who ordered you two recruited in the first place.”

“But _why_ ,” John asked again, still utterly baffled by the whole line of events.

“Because they wanted you dead. A thrall can’t be broken; it’s permanent until one of the party’s dies. Moran wasn’t willing to shoot you in the streets and risk his freedom so they used subterfuge instead. He’ll be far more dangerous now that he’s being listed as dishonorably discharged. He won’t hesitate to go at you directly once more. As for this Moriarty character, he’s a complete mystery. We don’t have a single file on him and no records otherwise. Jim Moriarty is without a doubt an alias, but _who_ he really is we have no idea.”

< _It must drive you mad being so in the dark, Mycroft. >_

“It must drive you mad being so in the dark, Mycroft,” John smirked, and then turned on Sherlock angrily, “ _Stop_ doing that! It’s rude!”

“Honestly, Sherlock, I don’t know why you don’t just _speak_. Your throat is perfectly fine,” Mycroft snapped.

_< My voice changed. I don’t like it.>_

“He… he says his voice changed and he doesn’t like it,” John frowned at him.

_Is that why you refused to help me in the desert?! You don’t like the sound of your voice?!_

_< Don’t be ridiculous. I was so dehydrated I couldn’t speak when I tried. You try spitting up boiling water and see what it does for your constitution!>_

_Right, yes, sorry. Sorry._

< _Honestly_. > Sherlock groused, but slipped an arm around John’s shoulders and leaned against him nonetheless.

“Would you two like to be _alone_ ,” Mycroft sneered.

< _Yes, please. >_

“That would be lovely, yes,” John decided.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and headed for the doorway, his umbrella tapping on the floor, but he paused at the door:

“It isn’t like you can do much with him,” Mycroft laughed, “He’s utterly impotent, and I doubt your high moral codes will allow you to take advantage of him; those very morals that cause me to allow your association, by the way. Do keep that in mind, doctor.”

“Why don’t you buy him a chastity belt and get it over with?” John growled.

“Because I don’t need to. It’s much more fun this way, watching you deny yourself. Quite entertaining,” Mycroft chortled.

< _He obviously doesn’t know what we did in Afghanistan. >_

_We didn’t do much._ John sighed, grateful when the door shut behind the man.

< _We had sex. >_

_Is that what you call it? I want to_ touch _you, Sherlock. Not just look at you._

_< I’ll… think about it.>_

_Can I at least see you like you were then? All stretched out and posing for me?_ John asked with a smirk.

< _Not if you don’t appreciate it. >_ Sherlock stated with a sniff.

The door opened again and Mycroft leaned back in for one final parting shot: “Oh, and Sherlock, do reconsider the talking issue. We can’t all sound like choir boys.”

John gaped and Sherlock growled angrily, but refused to answer his questions or even respond to his jibes. John finally gave up and curled up in their bed.

John was a good deal more comfortable than he had been before. Getting out of bed and moving around seemed to have sorted him almost miraculously. The doctors who had examined him here thought his leg and hand might be psychosomatic rather than actual injuries. That would explain his sudden turn around. In the danger he’d forgotten his ‘limp’ and it had simply vanished. The tremor kept creeping up, but it didn’t start again until several hours later. John was hopeful that it would stop soon, too.

John lay down on his good side in the bed and waited for Sherlock to finish sulking, but he was apparently restless and John ended up watching his naked body pace the floor of their tiny hospital room until he fell asleep.

Chapter 7: Rolling in the Deep

**_Mental Disorders » Py-Z » Selective mutism_ **

**_Causes_ **

_When the disorder was first studied, and for many years thereafter, it was thought to be caused by severe trauma in early childhood. Some of these causative traumas were thought to include rape, molestation, incest, severe physical or emotional **abuse** , and similar experiences. In addition, many researchers attributed selective mutism to family dynamics that included an overprotective mother and an abnormally strict or very distant father. As of 2002, these factors have not been completely eliminated as causes of selective mutism in most cases, but it is generally agreed that they are not the most common causes. _

_Children with selective mutism have been found to be more timid and shy than most children in social situations, and to exhibit signs of depression, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and anxiety disorders. Some children have been reported to dislike speaking because they are uncomfortable with the sound of their own voice or because they think their voice sounds abnormal. _

_Read more:_ [ _http://www.minddisorders.com/Py-Z/Selective-mutism.html#ixzz2Sk4pak1O_ ](http://www.minddisorders.com/Py-Z/Selective-mutism.html#ixzz2Sk4pak1O)

 

Two days after they’d returned to the Continent John had been released from hospital and the two of them had gotten a cheap motel. John had immediately decided it was time to make good on his promise of two showers – one with Sherlock – and informed him of such. The results were disastrous to their relationship.

John jumped in the shower solo first, scrubbing himself down with efficiency while remaining half hard at the idea of wet!Sherlock. Then he thought hard about the dragon entering the shower with him and the young man happily complied, slipping into the shower with a nervous smile.

_What are you nervous about?_

_< You mentioned wanting to touch me.>_

_Gods, yes, will you let me this time?_

_< You promised to shower with me. You can wash me.>_ Sherlock replied with a shrug and a frown.

John had certainly washed the prat before when he’d insisted he didn’t feel like doing it himself, so the implication remained that this would be a _sexy_ shower as opposed to a washing shower. John grabbed a fresh bar of soap, slicked up his hands, and started on the proffered back. He made it into a massage, and the dragon-man groaned appreciatively as John pressed into his shoulder muscles. The second John’s cock accidentally (mostly) bumped his thigh, Sherlock recoiled, slipping and almost falling. John caught him- thankfully with his good arm- and straightened him out, with much consoling as he did so.

“Easy, Sherlock. It doesn’t bite, I promise, and I wouldn’t just shove it into you unannounced and unprepared. Honestly I wouldn’t.”

Sherlock stood there, staring at John with wide innocent eyes, and he suddenly felt like an absolute pervert.

“I’m sorry, Sher, lets just wash up, yeah? You’ve been enjoying showers for a bit, but this is my first in nearly a year! Maybe… you could wash my back?”

Sherlock dove for the soap, a look of relief on his face, and John turned his back and tried to enjoy the creature’s touch. Within seconds his erection was back, but he was stubbornly telling himself he wouldn’t be getting any action. Then Sherlock dipped his hands low and cupped John’s arse. John gasped and pushed back, surprised by his sudden willingness to bottom, as the thought had never crossed his mind before. He’d always pictured Sherlock bottoming for _him._

“Well that’s…” John panted, and Sherlock slipped his hands around John’s waist to wash his front.

Sherlock’s hands smoothed over John’s chest and abs first before dipping down to wrap around his aching cock. John moaned, thrusting eagerly into the soapy hands that were just barely wrapping themselves around his prick, one in front of the other.

_Hasn’t he ever done this before? Even with himself?_

“T-tighter,” John pleaded, and Sherlock complied by tightening both hands and giving John the friction he’d been longing for.

John could feel Sherlock growing hard against his backside and he rubbed it against the man’s growing desire shamelessly. Sherlock gasped in surprise, thrusted against him a moment, and then pulled back and bolted out of the shower. John was left standing there, drenched in soap and aching with need, completely unable to decide whether to follow him or stay and finish what he’d started. His erection won out as it throbbed mercilessly and John fisted himself fast and hard. He came after only a few tugs and nearly fell to his knees with the force of his long-denied orgasm.

Once John had regained proper thought processes he rinsed himself off, dried off quickly, and followed the wet trail to the bed. Sherlock was sprawled – naked and still soapy – across the bedspread. John opened his mouth to tease him and then noticed the shaking shoulders.

_Fuck! He’s crying!_

“Sherlock, it’s alright, love. Come on, now. Talk to me. What’s wrong?” John soothed, but when he put his hand on the dragon’s shoulder to comfort him he transformed into a tiny dragon and bolted for the shower.

John checked the door and found it locked, but he could hear water running from inside. He tried pleading with him through the door before giving up and sitting down on the (damp) bed to watch TV. Sherlock emerged a few minutes later and raided John’s suitcase. Since he had never had a concern for John’s personal possessions John paid his actions no mind, though he did try to ask if Sherlock were feeling better.

Sherlock ignored him and proceeded to dress in a rather ill fitting set of John’s pajamas. John sat there on the bed, a mixture of self-loathing and fear for his friend curling in his belly. He’d pushed Sherlock too far. The young man had _never_ worn clothes in front of John. With the exception of a navy pea coat he’d taken preference to, when it was chilly he’d only ever wrapped himself up in sheets or blankets. The men in the service had joked that he should have been a Roman dragon since he was so good at turning any old blanket into a perfectly serviceable toga.

“Sherlock… Sherlock I’d never force you to do anything, you know that don’t you?”

No answer.

“Damn it, Sherlock please answer me! I mean it. I’ll call Mycroft. This is bloody _important_.”

< _I know you wouldn’t, John. It’s myself I don’t trust. >_

“Why? How? I’m willing, what makes you not trust yourself?”

< _I don’t want that with you, John. Or, at least, my body doesn’t. I can’t get more than half aroused and it’s maddening. It disgusts me. You were right before, it’s wrong of me to taunt you with a body you can never have. >_

John didn’t know whether or not he should be grateful or angry at Sherlock’s withdrawal from him. Yet the dragon didn’t retreat completely. He curled up beside John and pulled his head to rest on his bony shoulder while they watched the news. John took a deep breath of his familiar scent, nuzzled into his clothed shoulder to adjust to the unusual feel of it, and tried to make himself accept this as _it_.

He couldn’t.

The next day Mycroft had found them a lovely flat in Surrey, but Sherlock immediately retaliated by finding them a nice flat in Westminster. John took a long look around 221B Baker Street and assured the landlady that, yes; they’d need two rooms. Sherlock pouted but John stubbornly refused to share a room with the lizard any longer.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Once they’d settled into 221B John found out that his separation from Sherlock was straining the dragon more than he’d thought when he suddenly burst into his room – stark naked – and jumped onto his bed.

“Make it go away, John! Make it _stop!_ ” a deep voice called out in the darkened room.

John had been half asleep but he was instantly awake when the dragon-man straddled his hips and pressed a very large, very _painful_ looking erection into his stomach. His first instinct was to wrap his hands around it – which evoked a groan from Sherlock – and his next was to kiss him soundly. Sherlock pulled away from his kiss in favor of bracing himself with his hands against the headboard and frantically thrusting into John’s fist.

“Oh, gods,” John groaned, and slid down the bed so he could use his mouth on the frantic creature as well, wisely holding his hand in front to guard against choking.

John wanted to make this good – _needed_ to make this good – because he had no doubt whatsoever that his response tonight would dictate Sherlock’s behavior for the rest of their relationship. So he ignored the twinge in his jaw and the larger pain in his shoulder and made himself a willing hole for the dragon kneeling over his head. One of Sherlock’s hands gripped his hair, holding his head at the perfect angle, and John moaned eagerly. Sherlock echoed his moan and fucked John’s fist and mouth fast and hard, John grateful for being included in any kind of pleasure for Sherlock as he braced himself for what would undoubtedly be his first taste of come. It didn’t happen. Sherlock tired long before John got the mouthful he’d expected. Throwing himself down on the bed beside John, Sherlock tried wanking himself. He was swearing and writhing in apparent pain. John struggled to sit up, thinking of the lube in his drawer, when he noticed the truly agonized look on the dragon’s face.

“Just hold still a moment, let me look at you,” John insisted, his doctor self emerging.

Sherlock gave up, one arm thrown dramatically over his eyes and the other above his head, and John examined his swollen, red prick. It was clearly not _supposed_ to be red. Sherlock had chaffed himself, either before or after he’d come to see John, he wasn’t sure which. It looked _very_ painful. His bollocks were relaxed, though, and that made John a bit suspicious.

“Have you ejaculated already?”

“Y-yes,” Sherlock panted.

“How many times?”

“Twice.”

“Sherlock… did you take something?”

“He told me it would help,” Sherlock whinged.

“Who did?”

“A drug dealer,” He admitted, still hiding behind his arm.

“Fucking hell! We’re going to hospital. Now! No arguments.”

“Well, you won’t get any from me.”

John bundled Sherlock in his pea coat, a pair of shoes that had just appeared in the flat the other day, and a scarf for good measure since it was threatening snow. They hailed a cab, which John was surprised stopped for them considering their appearance, and headed over to St. Barts.

One exam, a blood test, and an injection later, and Sherlock was stretched out on his bed in the A&E looking miserable, but flaccid, when a pair of Police Constables walked in.

“Morning, gentlemen, I’m PC Lestrade and this is PC Gregson. I understand we decided to try a bit of illegally obtained prescription meds out?”

John groaned- more from the fact he now knew it was morning than that an officer was here to talk to Sherlock. He pointed to his companion who raised an imperious eyebrow and frowned at the policemen. Sherlock hadn’t spoken two words since they’d made it to the A&E, but John remembered the rich, baritone of his voice nonetheless. He was sure he hadn’t imagined it, even if the first hour of waking had seemed rather like a wet dream.

“He’s your culprit,” John sighed, “But he’s a dragon, you’ll be unable to prosecute him. He’s basically a law unto himself.”

“What’s a nice dragon like you doing taking pills some wanker sold you off a street corner?” The shorter of the two – Gregson – cooed at Sherlock.

< _John, make him leave. I don’t like him. >_

“Gregson has to leave, Sherlock doesn’t like him. Bloody hell! Don’t start that again! You spoke earlier, you can do it again,” John argued. Lestrade gave them both a confused look, but nodded for Gregson to leave.

< _I was in_ pain _earlier. This is entirely different. >_

“No. Absolutely not. I’ve had it up to _here_ ,” John indicated a space over his head, “With being your mouth. Talk for yourself.”

“Well, thank goodness you’re short,” Sherlock stated with the same haughty look he’d given Lestrade, “Otherwise that might actually be an _alarming_ amount of irritation.”

Lestrade barked a laugh out and shook his head while John fumed off to the side.

“Listen, boys,” Lestrade smiled, “I don’t think you realize this, but I actually _can_ charge you for this. Queen’s kind aren’t above the law – they’ve just got lots of lovely privileges the rest of us poor lot aren’t entitled to…”

John interrupted him by snorting: “He’s _still_ a law unto himself.”

“But I’m not going to throw the book at you,” Lestrade continued undeterred, “for what looks to me like an experiment gone wrong. Besides, I think you’ve more than learned your lesson, eh?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the officer’s tone and opened his mouth to reply. John had a moment of dread and regret as he realized that now Sherlock was unleashed on the world around him – no more censoring the dragon’s barbed tongue.

“Sherlock…” John cautioned.

“If I wanted the opinion of a bootlicking, sore footed, _chimp_ then I’d have marched down to the Yard and told you what it was first. I highly suggest you take your patronizing tone, shove it up your arse, shove that back into your bacon sambo, and find someone actually _committing a crime_ to harass. May I suggest you start with the man poisoning people I saw on yesterday’s news.”

“Those were suicides,” Lestrade replied, his half grin never leaving his face.

“Wrong.”

“Oh, what were they then?”

“Serial killings, officer Bluebottle.”

“Full of old slang for Yarders, are you? Let me help you out. Bobby, Cozzer, Filth, Force (my favorite, because it sounds like Star Wars) Lilly, Plodder, Nazi Stormtrooper, Peeler, Squealer, Stench, Tit, Woodentop. Have I missed any?”

Sherlock gave him a disgusted look: “Several, but they are less appropriate, so I will overlook your failing just this once.”

John gaped; Lestrade gave Sherlock a courtly bow and _still_ hadn’t lost his half-grin.

“Kind of you! You know what I think?” Lestrade asked.

“I can hardly deign to guess as my brain has evolved above the level of yours.”

“I think you’re spitting mad and embarrassed as hell, but you know what? I’ve seen worse. In fact, I’ve seen ten times more stupid than you were today,” Lestrade gave them both a nod and turned towards the door, “Have a nice day, gents.”

Lestrade strolled out, but John didn’t get a chance to heave a sigh of relief, because Sherlock suddenly looked frantic and squirmed into an upright position.

“John! Get him back! Get him back now!”

Sherlock’s panicked shout was verbal – cracking a bit from disuse – and mental. John was out the door and the few steps down the hall before he knew what had hit him. He grabbed the PC’s arm and bodily dragged him back, apologizing the whole way.

“Something you wanted, my Lord?” Lestrade asked, his tone respectful despite the obviously mocking phrase.

“You’re too clever to be a PC,” Sherlock stated, his eyes narrowing in a funny way that had John’s hackles raised.

“Oh, well, glad someone else thinks so,” Lestrade agreed amicably.

“I’m going to do you a favor and see to it that changes,” Sherlock informed him.

“And what will this favor cost me?”

“Not much, considering your partner is sleeping with your girlfriend… no, fiancé,” Sherlock pointed towards the hall where Gregson was on his mobile, clearing talking as quietly as possible, and casting nervous glances at Lestrade.

Lestrade let out a nervous laugh, looking rumpled for the first time that morning, and shook his head.

“Cheryl would never do me like that, she’s a good girl… wait, how did you know we’re engaged?”

Sherlock didn’t answer; he merely raised an eyebrow and waited.

“Sherlock,” John started, but the PC cut him off.

“What is this some sort of _mind_ reading?”

“No, merely an observation. A deduction if you will,” Sherlock explained, “If you think I’m wrong feel free to check for yourself.”

Lestrade squared his jaw, jerked his arm out of John’s loosened grip, and pivoted smartly on his heel. He marched over to Gregson and snatched the mobile out of his hand before he could back away. Then he raised it to his ear while all the color drained out of his partner’s face.

“Cheryl?” Lestrade asked, and then calmly handed the phone back to Gregson, “Do me a favor and pass on a message, yeah? Tell her the weddings off.”

Lestrade gave Sherlock a nod over his shoulder and then calmly left the building. John stood there in shock; trying to figure out if the poor man was all right or not.

“Sherlock, that was cruel,” John scolded.

“I ended it before he could become further attached, isn’t that kinder?”

“No, no, that was _not_ kind.”

Sherlock looked confused and John wondered just how much the man had socialized before he’d gone mute and then attached himself to John like a leech. The entrance of the urologist, who had a soothing smile plastered to his face, interrupted John’s thoughts. John’s gut immediately clenched in horror; he knew that look – he’d _used_ that look on patients before.

“Oh, gods,” John breathed, “What’s wrong? What’s wrong with Sherlock?”

The doctor’s false smile faltered, but then resumed with purposeful enthusiasm. John thought he might be sick.

Chapter 8: Pick-Me-Up

_Erectile Dysfunction Definition_

_By Mayo Clinic staff_

_Erectile dysfunction (impotence) occurs when a man can no longer get or keep an erection firm enough for sexual intercourse. Having erection trouble from time to time isn't necessarily a cause for concern. But if erectile dysfunction is an ongoing problem, it may cause stress, cause relationship problems or affect your self-confidence._

_Even though it may seem awkward to talk with your doctor about erectile dysfunction, go in for an evaluation. Problems getting or keeping an erection can be a sign of a health condition that needs treatment, such as heart disease or poorly controlled diabetes. Treating an underlying problem may be enough to reverse your erectile dysfunction._

_If treating an underlying condition doesn't help your erectile dysfunction, medications or other direct treatments may work._

 

“Mr. Holmes,” The urologist stated calmly, “I’m going to need to examine you again now that you’re no longer erect. Would that be acceptable?”

< _No. >_

“No,” John echoed, not even questioning Sherlock’s unwillingness to talk to the doctor.

“Sorry, and you would be?” The man asked dismissively.

“His thrall,” John snapped.

“Oh… Mr. Holmes is a…”

“Dragon, yes, do you lot even _look_ at your charts?” John snapped. This was the third doctor he’d had to point that out to.

“Very well, Mr…?” The urologist continued unperturbed.

“ _Doctor_ Watson,” John snipped.

“Dr. Watson – I would urge you to allow us to examine your companion. We noticed something during the first examination. It might be nothing, especially considering the cocktail he’d absorbed, but it also might be a serious condition. It might even be the reason he was unable to achieve an erection in the first place, though knowing now that he is a dragon, that may not be the case…”

< _Tell him to get it over with. >_

“He says to get it over with,” John nodded back to Sherlock who had obediently pulled up his hospital gown.

The urologist poked and prodded at Sherlock until he looked like he wanted to climb backwards over the bed.

< _John, make him stop! I hate being touched there! >_

_Does it hurt?_

_< No! Yes! Damn it, make him stop!>_

“Are you done yet?”

“What branch of medicine did you study, Dr. Watson?” The urologist asked, stepping back and removing his gloves.

Sherlock jerked his gown down and motioned for John to come closer. John found himself sitting on the bed with a lapful of tiny, trembling dragon. He petted Sherlock soothingly and tucked the blanket around him to put him out of sight.

“Both general medicine and surgery.”

“That’s a broad range.”

“I’ve a high IQ and insomnia. Never a good combination,” It was an old joke, but his heart wasn’t into it.

“Would he allow another examination? This time by a colleague of mine? I’d like a second opinion.”

“What sort of specialist?” John asked, dreading the answer.

The doctor paused a moment, then nodded and replied: “An oncologist.”

“Cancer? You think he has cancer?”

“If you examine him, I think you’ll find a small lump on the underside of the head of his penis. It’s about the size of a pea. It’s actually a wonder you didn’t find it yourself,” The man’s voice was caustic and accusatory.

“He doesn’t let me touch him there. He doesn’t like to be touched.”

“It’s no wonder, he’s probably in pain on a regular basis.”

John pulled Sherlock off of his lap and held him tightly to his chest. Sherlock was trembling as John stood up to pace the room. He hadn’t refused the visit from an oncologist, but John wasn’t sure he could handle it.

_It’s important to make sure that you’re well, Sherlock._

< _Just get it over with. >_

John told them to send in the oncologist and he arrived a few minutes later. It took a bit of coaxing to get Sherlock to transform again, and when he finally did he refused to leave John’s lap. John thought that perhaps the transformations into a dragon weren’t quite as voluntary as he’d originally assumed. He felt like a fool sitting in the A&E with a naked man on his lap, but Sherlock clung to him tightly and hid his face against the top of his head; he could hardly push the nervous man aside at a time like this. The oncologist was perhaps a bit more rough in the examination and Sherlock actually yelped at one point.

When he’d finished, John reached a curious hand out himself and _very_ gently examined Sherlock’s bits. It felt like a sub dermal piercing and he recalled them asking early on if Sherlock had piercings down there. In fact, there were several of them, though smaller, further down the shaft.

“There’s more than one here,” John called to the oncologist, who was talking quietly with the urologist.

“Yes, I noticed them. We’ll need to do a full body scan to check for more masses. I’ll be honest; the chances of it being cancer are about midrange due to his age and overall health. How treatable it is depends on the location. The ones on his genitals that we’ve found so far are operable; we can simply remove them. If they prove to be cancerous we’ll start chemotherapy or radiation as necessary. If we find others during the body scan we’ll discuss them as well.”

_< What about functionality? Will it _work _afterwards? >_

“Will the surgery disrupt urination?”

“No, it’s off to one side of the urethra. He’ll most likely feel less pain during that process as well.”

< _It never really hurt per se, however, I was asking about_ erections _, not urination. >_

_Oh._

“Ah, he’d like to know about erections as well. He’s never been able to maintain one before,” John felt himself turn scarlet.

“We believe the lowest mass,” The urologist replied, “near his testicles, is cutting off part of his blood flow by putting pressure on the largest vein on the underside of his penis. If removed it may alleviate his erectile dysfunction, but that’s assuming he isn’t asexual. Since he’s shown sexual attraction and developed partial erections then it’s entirely likely that the cause was medical all along, but you’d need to consult with a dragonologist to be certain. If you two hadn’t come in with this particular problem then it may have never been noticed until it was untreatable simply because dragons are known for low libidos.”

John tightened his grip around Sherlock’s waist supportively and felt an answering kiss on the top of his head. The doctors hurried away to schedule his body scan and the biopsy they wanted done.

Four hours later and the body scan revealed no more masses. The biopsy ended up being canceled in favor of removing the masses – since they clearly needed to be removed no matter what– and analyzing their contents later. The surgery was scheduled for the next day and John and Sherlock were sent home to relax until then.

John helped Sherlock apply the medicinal cream to his injured privates, pull on a pair of John’s pants, and tucked a drained Sherlock into his own bed, but promised to stay with the quiet young man. Sherlock silently nodded and John promised to return as soon as he got some food for them all.

< _Don’t bother. I’ve sent for some takeaway. Just listen for the door. >_

John blinked down at Sherlock, wondering when and how he’d managed to send away for takeaway, then shrugged out of his jumper and shoes and curled up beside him. About twenty minutes later the bell rang and John went down to answer it.

PC Lestrade stood on the other side, looking bewildered and holding a bag full of small boxes that smelled of Thai food. He gave John a positively alarmed look.

“You’re that bloke from the hospital! The one with the dragon!”

“Yes, yes, I am. This is my flat – our flat – are you moonlighting as a deliver boy?”

“What?” Lestrade glanced down at his hands and the parcel therein and gave it an equally alarmed look, “What is this stuff, it smells horrid.”

“Thai food, Sherlock’s favorite besides Italian. Where’d you get it from if you weren’t delivering it?” John asked, wondering if he’d paid the delivery boy.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Lestrade replied, looking even more alarmed, “I was headed home when… I just ended up here. With these.”

_Oh my gods._

“I think you’d better come in, officer,” John sighed.

Lestrade followed him up the stairs and into the flat where he placed the food down on a table. John fetched plates and started serving the food up while his mind worked in overdrive. Clearly Sherlock had a new thrall, but what did that mean for John? Out with the old, in with the new? John was damaged goods- the excitement gone as he resigned himself to a life of working in a surgery. While he was perfectly willing to support Sherlock financially, he also wanted something from Sherlock the man was unwilling to give. It made sense for him to trade out for someone knew.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what’s going on?” Lestrade asked.

“You’re going to need this,“ John sighed as he handed him a beer from the fridge.

Lestrade cracked it open without question, downed several gulps, belched loudly, and pulled up a stool. He raised an eyebrow and John decided he was as braced as he’d get.

“Sherlock’s put you under his thrall. It’s permanent. He’ll be able to talk to you mentally, take control of you on occasion for short periods of time, influence your behavior to a certain degree, and did I mentioned _talk_ to you telepathically. A _lot._ He rather likes that part.”

“So that whole ‘I’ll get you a better job’ was in exchange for what? My free will?” Lestrade looked furious, and hurried to his feet.

John couldn’t blame him, but he still cut him off from going to search for Sherlock.

“Look, it’s not so bad. You’ll come to love him, practically worship him really, and he’ll... well, he won’t love you back, but he’ll give you what you need to a certain extent.”

“I’d have advanced eventually on my own! I _need_ my free will back! I’m not some blooming errand boy, and I prefer the _opposite_ gender, thank you very much!”

“No you don’t,” Sherlock informed as he stepped into the kitchen with a yawn and headed for the food John had laid out.

Sherlock picked up a plate and dropped into his favorite armchair to eat. Lestrade seemed frozen, his face incredulous and a muscle in his cheek twitching angrily. John was a bit concerned he’d attack the dragon and moved to stand between them. His leg was aching again. He wanted his cane back but he couldn’t recall where he’d put it.

“So that’s it then? You know what’s best for me and I’d better just accept it as gospel?” Lestrade snarled.

“It would go easier for you, yes.”

“You’re a real presuming arsehole, you know that?”

“John’s said as much.”

Lestrade glanced at John, looking a bit confused.

“He doesn’t control your every thought and move, just when he _needs_ you to do something.”

“Oh, well, isn’t that spiffy! At least I’ll be able to keep on fucking _hating_ him!” Lestrade turned and stormed out of the flat.

John watched him go in confusion, glancing at a completely unconcerned Sherlock, while wondering what had gone wrong. When Sherlock had turned up he’d gratefully accepted the dragon’s presence in his life. Why hadn’t Lestrade done the same? He was clearly under thrall; he’d shown up with Sherlock’s food without meaning to. Unless it was hypnotism? John hoped not, that was still illegal.

“Sherlock? He is under thrall, yeah?”

< _Obviously >_ Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Why do you only talk around him?”

No answer.

“I like the sound of your voice. It’s quite lovely.”

No answer.

“Mycroft mentioned you being in a choir? Would you sing for me?”

Sherlock gave John a disparaging glance: < _Mycroft was referring to the fact I was still a soprano before I transformed for the first time. While I do have musical talent, I do not sing. >_

“You had to be… what? Your early twenties? How old are you?”

< _Twenty-four, now. Twenty-three at the time. >_

“Still soprano… geez, didn’t you get _mocked_. I’d think you’d prefer the new deeper voice.”

< _It was_ my _voice and now it’s gone and I grew fucking_ scales _instead! I went from a weirdo to a FREAK. Can you imagine that, John? I’m not even accepted by other dragons! >_

“That’s a rubbish deal, Sherlock,” John sighed, sitting on the edge of his chair and carding his fingers through the young man’s curly hair, “but you’re brilliant the way you are. Smart, beautiful, strong… you can fly, that’s got to be something.”

Sherlock harrumphed, swallowed his last bite of food, and then stood and walked back into his bedroom. John sighed, grabbed a pint and a fork, and followed the miserable creature. He sat by his side as Sherlock drifted off to sleep. Once he’d finished eating he brushed his teeth and curled up with him in bed. He was careful not to cuddle too closely, just in case he became aroused again.

“Does it hurt you?” Sherlock whispered, giving John a start.

“Does what hurt? You being sick?”

“No, not that; I can feel your emotions. It’s your physiological feelings that elude me.”

“Oh, you mean… when I’m aroused?”

“Yes. Does it hurt?”

“Not… exactly. It’s uncomfortable, but also exciting. It can be stressful at times, but it’s also a relief when I’m able to… ah… orgasm. See… what you went through isn’t _normal_ Sherlock. Did you even enjoy it when you came?”

“Not really, no. The first time felt spectacular, but then I was still uncomfortable – as you so succinctly put it – because the erection hadn’t abated. After the second time I climaxed I was in pain from both the swelling and the chaffing.”

“Well, once your willy heals up I’ll buy you some lube and you won’t have to worry about any more chaffing.”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock sighed and snuggled back a bit.

John was instantly erect. It was utterly cruel how aroused he was by this young man. Sherlock reached around behind himself as John leaned back to avoid brushing his hard-on against his companion. He explored the shape from that odd angle, then rolled over and faced John with a curious look on his face in the half-light of the full moon outside the window.

“You don’t… have to…” John breathed, his excitement settling heavily in his bollocks.

“I want to,” Sherlock sighed, leaning in and pressing those unbelievably pouty lips against his.

John moaned into the kiss, practically trembling with desire, and Sherlock awkwardly tugged his sleep pants down and wrapped his long fingers around his shaft. John was grasping at Sherlock’s shoulders, his arms completely in the way. He couldn’t press close to Sherlock the way he wanted to, not with the man’s bits in so much pain, but he also couldn’t just _not_ touch him during such an intimate moment. He settled for pressing their foreheads together and running one hand through his hair. The motions were clearly unfamiliar to the dragon-man and John gently clasped his wrist to guide him. He could see Sherlock staring at him in wide-eyed fascination.

“You’re _pulsing_.”

“Oh, gods, I’m so close,” John panted, humiliated at how quickly he was brought to the edge by this gorgeous man. He couldn’t decide whether the deciding factor was his sexy voice or his persistent innocence.

Sherlock sped up his movements without being urged and leaned forward to kiss John’s neck. When he ran a stripe up his neck with his tongue and flicked his earlobe, John let out a strangled cry and came hard. He panted through his orgasm, thrusting sharply into Sherlock’s fist, and then simply clutched at him as he pressed kisses to his sharp cheekbones.

Sherlock smiled shyly, looking proud of himself, and John babbled praises like a fool before staggering out of bed to get a flannel to clean them both up. He returned to find Sherlock sampling his essence with a curious look on his face. John groaned at the sight and sat down before his knees gave out.

“Odd taste, but not entirely unpleasant. Why are you making those noises? Are you erect again?”

“N-no just… a bit excited. I’m not _quite_ young enough to be getting off every five minutes.”

Sherlock extended his hand like a lady asking for a kiss and John wiped it clean with an amused smile. Sherlock yawned and rolled onto his back, arms thrown above his head. He looked like _he’d_ been the one ravaged. John chuckled to himself and settled in beside the dragon-man to keep him company for the night.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade tossed himself into his creaky desk chair and thumbed his computer on. It would take about five minutes to boot up- seven in the summer. He debated packing up his shit and making a real stand – demanding a different partner- but as usual he wimped out and stared at his desk until Gregson arrived.

_Where’s that miracle you promised me, dragon boy?_ Lestrade thought to himself miserably.

_< Patience. I’m heading for surgery at the moment and it’s delayed your reward.>_

Lestrade jumped and looked around himself in alarm. Gregson gave him a wary look, but was otherwise unimpressed with his presence. How had he missed what an unbelievable wanker this guy was for four months?

_< He’s jealous of you. It’s a bit pathetic, really.>_

Lestrade grinned despite himself, and of course he was looking at Gregson when he did it.

“What?” Gregson demanded with narrowed eyes.

“Nothing.”

“Did you do something?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know… some sort of prank?”

< _Oh, that’s brilliant. He steals your female and you do what? Put glue on his chair? >_

Lestrade’s grinned wider, he probably looked mad by now but he could hardly care. He’d slept in his bed alone last night for the first time in six years.

“You think that’s how this works? You steal my woman out from behind my back and I put glue in your chair or something?”

“What are you planning, then?”

< _He’ll never see it coming. >_

“You’ll never see it coming,” Lestrade chortled.

Gregson looked alarmed, but covered it by pushing out of his chair and checking their phone for messages. The only one on it was a sobbing call from Cheryl begging Lestrade to take her back.

< _Oh, poor Gregson having to hear that. >_ The voice in his head crooned sarcastically.

“Sorry about that, Gregson,” Lestrade replied with false remorse, “I’ll text her and let her know not to call the work line again.”

Gregson stomped off in a tiff to get some coffee while Lestrade laughed out loud.

_You’re not half as bad as I thought, but I’m still pissed at you._

_< Can’t talk now. Tired. Potatoes.>_

_Sorry, what?_

XXXXXXXXXXXX

John held Sherlock’s hand as they put the needle in his arm to knock him out. They’d given him the option to be awake for the surgery, but he’d had John tell them to put him under. John was allowed to stay in the surgery with Sherlock because of his medical background and the allowances made for thralls. Oddly enough, Sherlock’s nerves seemed to have disappeared on their way into the surgery. He’d held John’s hand and stared off into the distance as they’d rolled him in, smirking to himself, without the manic energy he’d displayed that morning that had made John worried he’d have to drag him in.

“Now, count back from 100,” The anesthesiologist asked him.

“100, 99, Can’t talk now. Tired. Potatoes.”

“Sorry, what?” John asked, laughing along with the other doctors.

“They say the craziest shite on that stuff,” The head surgeon laughed.

 

Chapter 10: Scare

Because of specific events of which some of you are aware, this chapter turned out to be completely different than was originally planned. I want to thank Lockdownwatz who suggested I make something out of the 'potatoes' line. Too funny! This story was also affected by a different reader (who will remain unmentioned) in a rather negative way, but I think I've managed to turn it to the good.

I'd also like to thank everyone who gave me suggestions on how to keep my cool when faced with ignorant remarks. I've employed more than one technique.

Enjoy! 

**_Penile Cancer_ **

****

**_There are three ways that cancer spreads in the body._ **

****

_The three ways that cancer spreads in the body are:_

_-Through tissue. Cancer invades the surrounding normal tissue._

_-Through the lymph system. Cancer invades the lymph system and travels through the lymph vessels to other places in the body._

_-Through the blood. Cancer invades the veins and capillaries and travels through the blood to other places in the body._

_When cancer cells break away from the primary (original) tumor and travel through the lymph or blood to other places in the body, another (secondary) tumor may form. This process is called metastasis. The secondary (metastatic) tumor is the same type of cancer as the primary tumor. For example, if_ [_breast cancer_ ](http://www.medicinenet.com/script/main/art.asp?articlekey=298) _spreads to the bones, the cancer cells in the bones are actually breast cancer cells. The disease is metastatic breast cancer, not_ [_bone cancer_ ](http://www.medicinenet.com/script/main/art.asp?articlekey=294) _._

_The following stages are used for penile cancer:_

_-Stage 0 (carcinoma in situ)_

_In stage 0, abnormal cells are found on the surface of the skin of the penis. These abnormal cells may become cancer and spread into nearby normal tissue. Stage 0 is also called carcinoma in situ._

_-Stage I_

_In stage I, cancer has formed and spread to connective tissue just under the skin of the penis._

_-Stage II_

_In stage II, cancer has spread to:_

_connective tissue just under the skin of the penis and to one lymph node in the groin; or_

_erectile tissue (spongy tissue that fills with blood to make an erection) and may have spread to one lymph node in the groin._

_-Stage III_

_In stage III, cancer has spread to:_

_connective tissue or erectile tissue of the penis and to more than one lymph node on one or both sides of the groin; or_

_the urethra or prostate, and may have spread to one or more lymph nodes on one or both sides of the groin._

_-Stage IV_

_In stage IV, cancer has spread:_

_to tissues near the penis and may have spread to lymph nodes in the groin or pelvis; or_

_anywhere in or near the penis and to one or more lymph nodes deep in the pelvis or groin; or to distant parts of the body._

 

“An article you read?” John asked, chuckling a bit.

“Yes, of course. You don’t think I’d just _blurt out_ random nonsense just because someone had injected me with propofol, do you?” Sherlock snipped.

“Yes, actually, I do.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock scoffed.

“What _exactly_ did this article say?” John asked, trying to fight back his smile.

“As we all know, sweet potato is rich in nutrition. However, what's more valuable is, among the 20 kinds of anti-cancer vegetables which are released recently by the Japanese National Cancer Research Center, sweet potato ranks the first. Cancer cells come from the epithelial cells of human body, while the sweet potato is rich in starch, carotenes as well as ten kinds of trace elements such as potassium, iron and so on. These nutrients have a variety of…”

“Sorry, are you quoting it directly?”

“Yes, why? You did say ‘exactly’.”

“Never mind, Sherlock, just… never mind… although,” John smirked once more, “You said ‘potatoes’ in surgery, not ‘sweet potatoes’.”

“Your point being?”

“Just… trying to be exact.”

Sherlock scowled at John and he lost the ability to hold back his laughter.

“Quite a bit of laughter going on for a hospital room,” Lestrade teased as he knocked on the door.

“Sherlock was just telling me about how potatoes can help prevent cancer, weren’t you Sherlock?” John snickered.

“That’s funny, he said something about potatoes in my head yesterday,” Lestrade said, scratching at the side of his head, “What was it now?”

“He did?” John asked, laughter dying out instantly as he glanced back and forth between Sherlock and Lestrade, not sure if the dragon was putting him up to it or not.

“You see, John? Perfectly rational explanation; nothing funny about it at all.”

“Oh, yeah,” Lestrade grinned, “He said he was tired, couldn’t talk, and then just said ‘potatoes’. Didn’t answer me after that. What was that all about?”

John burst out laughing again and Sherlock scowled at them more before compelling John to go out into hall and get him more apple juice. John staggered out, still laughing, and Lestrade shut the door behind him. When he returned with the apple juice it was to find that Lestrade had snuck some biscuits in to Sherlock.

“Give me those! You’re on a restricted diet, you git!” John snapped, taking them from the pouting dragon man, “Lestrade, you have to learn how to turn him down. He won’t force you all the time. You can tell him no.”

“Sure,” Lestrade scowled, “Easy for you to say, you’ve been at this longer than I have.”

An attractive female doctor entered the room interrupted their discussion. Lestrade and John both perked up and smiled at her warmly, but she was scowling so severely their smiles quickly disappeared. She stepped forward, ignoring John and Lestrade completely and held out her hand to Sherlock. She seemed unperturbed when he raised an eyebrow instead of his hand.

< _Oh, gods, a dragonologist._ > Sherlock mentally groaned.

“I’m Dr. Pria, the resident dragonologist. I’m afraid I was away visiting family in India when you first came in. I feel I should apologize for my colleagues’ actions. You never should have been subjected to an unnecessary surgery.”

“I don’t understand,” John wondered, “I thought the lumps had to be removed?”

“I take it you’re his thrall? A biopsy should have been done first rather than risk infection by removing the lumps before we determined if they were cancerous or not.”

“That… That would still make it two procedures instead of one,” John argued, glancing at Sherlock to see if he were following her logic, “They had to be removed anyway. They were cutting off his blood flow. Why put him through that twice?”

< _This is the part where she tells you she knows more about dragons than all of us put together._ >

“What you fail to understand, thrall-“

“ _Thrall?_ I have a name,” John snapped irritably.

“Kindly calm your thralls, Mr. Holmes. It isn’t good for them to feel your agitation,” The dragonologist snapped, glaring accusingly at Sherlock.

< _Oh, I assure you. I’m quite calm_. >

“Oh, I assure you. I’m quite calm,” John and Lestrade both pantomimed, their facial expressions coinciding with Sherlock’s precisely as he used them as his puppets.

The doctor was unimpressed.

“Mr. Holmes, while I certainly sympathize with your concern to remain unaltered, the fact remains that this is most assuredly penile cancer and a full penectomy is the recommended course of action.”

“You want to cut his penis off for what appears to be Stage I penile cancer with no proof that it even is?” John argued, raising his voice this time.

“As I said, a biopsy should have been performed first. Dragons are often asexual. Mr. Holmes being unable to get or maintain an erection is our _last_ concern. Not our first. I would have recommended the masses remain if he did not have cancer.”

“Even if your logic were sound- which it _is_ _not_ \- you’re still arguing cutting off a body part in full when the lumps could have just been – _have just been_ – removed! Why? Because he’s a dragon?”

“Sorry, your name was...?”

“Dr. Watson.”

“Dr. Watson, his life is more important than his ability to become aroused,” Dr. Pria snapped, “While I’m sure _you_ are quite concerned about the matter, I think you will find that he is not. There’s a reason dragons are so rare. Breeding is not their primary concern.”

_Don’t listen to her, Sherlock, that’s not why I’m concerned,_ John thought forcefully.

_< I’m aware of that. No need to shout. I’m right beside you, you know.>_

“We still aren’t even sure it’s cancer!” John shouted back at her, gripping Sherlock’s shoulder tightly, “The oncologist gave us a 50/50 shot because Sherlock’s so young. It could be something else! They could be moles, cysts, bloody fucking spider bites!”

“You and I both know that’s unlikely, Dr. Watson,” The dragonologist replied softy, and John fell silent, his breath coming fast.

_Is it unlikely? Sherlock, how often to dragons get cancer?_

< _At the same rate humans do, roughly. My lymph nodes were unaffected according to the scans they did. While it does appear to be metastatic, the chances of me having anything above Stage I are still virtually nil unless this cancer is so aggressive that it spread overnight. Since the masses have seemingly been there a while, this is unlikely. I concur with the first doctor; cancer is only a medium threat. Most likely these are cysts of some kind. They are unpleasant and painful, but only harmful if they’re doing damage to something else, like cutting off circulation to my penis. In that regard their removal was important to ensure I didn’t loose that portion of my body; not truly life threatening, but threatening to my way of life. >_

“His lymph nodes are clear,” John replied, deciding on the direct route, “We’ll wait for the results of the lab test to find out if he’s got cancer or not, thank you very much.”

“The risk is too great…”

“The treatment _wouldn’t change_ ,” John argued, “The doctors have been in twice to explain it. If it’s cancer he gets chemo. If not, he doesn’t. A biopsy would have just been an extra step, especially since the lumps _needed to be removed_ , and removing his entire penis for a few small bumps is completely over the top!”

“Mr. Holmes, kindly contain your thralls!” Dr. Pria snapped.

“Get out,” Lestrade growled, stepping towards her angrily.

“I am an expert in dragon physiology and-”

“-And you’re leaving,” Lestrade snapped, flashing his badge.

Dr. Pria gave them all a haughty glare and left the room with her head held high, but just before the door closed sent back one parting remark:

“I hope you’re happy risking his life over a painful erection!”

John stormed for the door but she’d vanished into the bustle of the hallway.

< _Well that was silly. The erection was painful from the drugs I consumed, not the lumps. >_

“Are they all like that?” John demanded of Sherlock, throwing himself down in a chair.

“For the most part. Experts usually are,” Sherlock sighed, “I know I am.”

“What are you an expert in?” Lestrade asked.

“It would be shorter to list what I am _not_ an expert in: classic literature, philosophy, astronomy, politics, and the useless forms of botany.”

“So you’re an expert in everything else?” Lestrade chuckled, disbelieving.

“You should have seen him in Afghanistan,” John sighed, flopping down in the chair, “We were trying to cross the desert, he was trying to _analyze_ it. He categorized exactly which elements composed the desert sand, how long it took them to go from rock to stone to sand, and therefore how long the desert had been there in comparison to the people warring on top of it.”

“How long?” Lestrade wondered.

“It was officially a desert one million and...”

“I’m going to see what’s keeping the doctors,” John stated, jumping back to his feet, “They promised they’d put it right under the scope in the lab downstairs and it’s been half a day.”

John headed out, half hoping to see Dr. Pria again so he could ream her out, but instead walked into a different discussion about Sherlock.

“He could have just been awake, but no,” a male nurse insisted to a female one, “he had to be a baby about it and ask to be put under! What a waste, and all because he’s a dragon he gets preferential treatment. We bumped two surgeries out to make room for him. _Two people_ whose lives we put at risk just because he grows scales. Now what? Apparently they heal ridiculously fast. He’ll be fine by tomorrow, I’m told. Not just feeling better, either: completely healed. Damn lizards have the life, you know?”

“Ahem,” John interrupted the two nurses, who both gave him guilty looks, “I take it then his results were clear?”

“Er, I’ll fetch the doctor for you Dr. Watson,” The male nurse scurried off and the female gave him a weak smile before bolting.

John made a mental note to discuss professional behavior with their head of medicine.

The oncologist met up with him and they both hurried into Sherlock’s room. Sherlock was mid-rant about the age of the sand and simply cut himself off verbally, but continued gesturing as if talking. John realized he was talking telepathically _only_ to Lestrade. He hadn’t realized he could do that.

“Sherlock?” John called, “The oncologist has your results.”

Sherlock sighed in frustration and turned his irritable expression on the oncologist.

“Oh, it’s good news, Mr. Holmes. They were, in fact, harmless cysts. Does your family have a history of cysts?”

Sherlock shrugged indifferently.

“Well,” The doctor continued, “You may want to find out. If they do then there’s a good chance you’ll develop more, though not necessarily there. You’ll want to keep an eye out for them and get them biopsied regularly just in case, but cysts don’t mean you’ll ever develop cancer. If you have one that’s painful again then just make an appointment with your usual doctor to have it removed. It need not be as invasive next time, either. Some of can be removed via laser surgery depending on the size.”

“Thank you, doctor,” John smiled, shaking his hand enthusiastically. Lestrade stepped forward to do the same. Sherlock blinked at him and turned back to Lestrade to continue his monologue.

 

Sources:

 

<http://www.lookchem.com/Chempedia/Health-and-Chemical/8701.html>

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cyst>

<http://www.medicinenet.com/penis_cancer/page2.htm>[  
  
](http://www.medicinenet.com/penis_cancer/page2.htm)

[CHAPTER 11-15](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/107697.html)


	3. vincentmeoblinn | Dragon Blood Ch 11-15

Chapter 11: Miscommunication

****

John fussed over Sherlock relentlessly when they got back to the flat. Lestrade stood nearby and chuckled at his antics, though if Sherlock was commenting to him mentally John had no idea. After a few hours of John waiting on him hand and foot Lestrade told John to take a pill and relax a bit.

“You’ve been tense since this whole thing started. He’s _fine_. Take a load off. I’ll order takeaway – my treat - and we can watch a movie or something. Got any beers?”

Lestrade helped himself to the kitchen and John stood there fuming for a moment. Sherlock was giving him a confused look but he just shook his head to tell the dragon to let it go.

“I hate that I can’t transform,” Sherlock pouted.

“It could tear something loose,” John parroted the doctors, “Be glad you only had surface work done. If they’d had to cut through muscle you’d have been waiting a week or more to transform again.”

“That’s utterly ridiculous,” Sherlock’s deep voice took on that scathing tone John both loved and hated, “How do you humans manage this form for so long? It’s completely inconvenient.”

“You heal almost 89% faster than the average human being. Shut up.”

“You’re still cross about your shoulder.”

“I’m not cross about my shoulder.”

“You are. You’re cross about it. I only did what I had to in order to ensure you survived.”

“I’m cross because I got shot, not because you boiled it afterwards. Can’t you tell the difference?”

Sherlock thought on that a moment and then shook his head: “When I read your mind it’s usually indistinct. I can hear your thoughts clearly when they’re directed at me, but only as whispers when they are not. I can feel your emotions to a certain degree, but it’s like reading the emotions on someone’s face; open for interpretation and varied based on situations, upbringing, and other various aspects.”

John sat down next to Sherlock on the couch and gave him a surprised look.

“You’ve always responded with such accuracy I just assumed I was an open book to you.”

“You mostly are, but that’s in no small part because I’m a genius and your mind is only average.”

John sighed and rolled his eyes: bonding time over.

Lestrade flopped down on the couch and passed a beer to John and a glass of merlot to Sherlock. John narrowed his eyes at the wine, mentally calculated the danger levels of mixing it with Sherlock’s medication, and then dismissed it as a pointless fight.

“So, what sort of movies do you lot have?” Lestrade asked cheerfully.

“None, we really don’t watch a lot. Also, we only just moved here. Sherlock and I were in Afghanistan for a while,” John replied.

“Yeah, he mentioned,” Lestrade frowned, “Terrible business, that.”

“Did he?”

“Yeah. Oh, I ordered your favorite Thai food, John. Sherlock told me what it was. Hope that’s okay?”

“Fantastic, thanks.”

_ Maybe I should move so they can sit closer together? _

Sherlock gave John an odd look and shifted a bit in his spot. He had his feet up on the table with a pillow under them to make him more comfortable. He didn’t look comfortable though, he looked distressed and was becoming increasingly so.

“Are you in pain, Sherlock?” John asked outright.

“No.”

“Are you just saying no so I’ll leave you alone?” John asked, feeling a bit irritated.

“No, I’m not in pain. I had my pain pill already. John?”

“Hm?”

“Why are _you_ in pain?”

“I… I’m not in pain.”

Sherlock studied John in confusion for a while, his eyes narrowed, and then shook his head a bit: “Yes, you are.”

“Okay, no more wine,” John snatched the glass from Sherlock’s fingers and walked it to the kitchen to dump it. He found himself standing in front of Sherlock handing it back instead.

“Thanks,” Sherlock smirked, taking the glass from John’s unresponsive fingers and sipping it cheerfully.

“You are an ass,” John stated as a matter of fact.

“Yes, but you _love_ the sight of my ass.”

John sighed and flopped down on the sofa, not planning on denying a truth that had him twitching in his trousers despite his frustration.

Lestrade chuckled, “What was that about giving into his whims?”

“He compelled me. You can’t stop him when he compels you,” John snapped, “Where the hell is that takeaway?”

“Ease up, mate,” Lestrade frowned, “I only called it in a few minutes ago.”

“You know what,” John stood in a huff, “I’m not your mate and I’m not particularly hungry. I’m going to bed. Don’t let Sherlock have anymore wine. Night.”

“Something I said?” John heard Lestrade ask Sherlock as he stomped upstairs.

< _What’s wrong with you? Lestrade thinks you’re mad at him. >_

_ Well then, tell him I’m not. _

_ <Why don’t you come downstairs and tell him yourself? I’m not your mouthpiece.> _

_ Oh, but I’m yours? Or am I anymore? _

_ <Since you keep telling me NOT to use you to talk to people, I suppose you aren’t.> _

_ Good. Fine. It’s better this way. Answer this for me, is he the one? The one you’re searching for? _

_ <It’s too early to form a hypothesis. Need more data.> _

_ Great, well, just don’t leave him chopped up on the kitchen table, yeah? _

Sherlock chuckled mentally, < _I’m not going to study him like that, John, but it’s good to hear you joking again. Now will you tell me why you’re upset? >_

_ I’m not upset. _

_ <You clearly are. Even Lestrade can tell.> _

_ Bugger Lestrade! _

_ <Ah, I see now John. Don’t worry. This will be fine.> _

Sherlock’s presence lifted from his mind and John flopped down on his bed. He’d changed into his nightclothes during the conversation, doing everything on autopilot. He curled up on his side and hugged his pillow to his chest, wondering how Sherlock was going to make every thing fine. On one hand he trusted the dragon to do just that; on the other he was tired, sad, and missed his dragon’s warm presence beside him. He ached to go downstairs and curl up on his bed, if only to breathe in his scent, but he didn’t want to get between Sherlock and Lestrade while they formed their new bond. By tomorrow morning Sherlock’s small special-grade dragon stitches would have dissolved and his penis would be fully healed. Would Lestrade stay the night? Would he sleep in Sherlock’s arms the way John often had? Would Sherlock wake up with his first natural erection? Would Lestrade…

John stuffed his pillow over his face and breathed into it fast and hard to make himself lightheaded enough to distract from the torturous thoughts in his head.

_ I’m being ridiculous, _ John decided as he pulled the pillow away, _Sherlock never promised me anything. I’ve got no right to be jealous. He might avoid us both the way he’s always avoided me. He might seek me out alone. He might seek him out alone. He might decide we’re one big family and share his bed with us both._

John stuffed his pillow back under his head and then jumped as someone knocked on his door. He was across the room and flinging it open with a grin on his face before he remembered Sherlock was likely in too much discomfort (and too medicated) to climb the stairs. Lestrade grinned at him sheepishly.

“Ah…” Lestrade said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yes?” John asked, folding his arms and leaning against the doorframe. He knew he looked uninviting, but he _wanted_ to. He’d liked Lestrade at first, but he just wasn’t ready to share Sherlock, no matter what logic dictated.

“Can I come in? I need a word with you. Preferably in private… if that’s even possible.”

“It might be. Depends on his mood. Is he asleep?”

“Yeah, passed out on the couch.”

“Probably likely, then.”

John stepped aside and Lestrade stood there a moment looking around the practically bare room.

“Army, remember? I haven’t got a lot of things.”

“Yeah, sure. Sorry, I didn’t mean… Listen, I’m not sure how to say this, and I’m really sorry but…”

Lestrade’s eyes suddenly glazed over and John furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. Then the man stepped forward into his personal space, backing John into his bedside table, grabbed him against himself, and kissed him.

It couldn’t have been more obvious that Lestrade wasn’t doing the kissing. The lips that touched his were inexperienced and nearly stiff. The hands that clutched his upper arms had Sherlock’s demanding grip. Also, the body that pressed close to his was utterly uninterested, despite the vigorous (and also naive) frotting it was doing against him. Lestrade’s body was not his own and John had never been more furious in his life.

First he extricated himself from Lestrade’s grip, then he bolted downstairs, so angry the blood was pounding in his ears. Sherlock was sitting on the couch with a container of Thai food in one hand and a pair of chopsticks in the other. He looked utterly confused and it was the only thing that stopped John from hitting him, because he’d completely forgotten the dragon-man was healing from surgery.

“Have you _completely_ lost your mind?” John screamed at him.

“I don’t think so.”

“ _That_ was rape, Sherlock. You can’t force him to throw himself at me!”

“You were lonely and aroused, you were thinking of Lestrade, he was lonely, sad, and wondering where he was going to sleep tonight. It seemed a decent solution.”

“I am _not_ interested in him! He’s not interested in me! He might not even be interested in men at all, did you ever think of that?”

Sherlock blinked. Apparently he hadn’t.

“You weren’t interested in men at first, that changed after you became my thrall. Logic implies that is due to my own attraction to the male form. Theoretically Lestrade should respond in kind.”

“That’s… That’s balmy even for you,” John argued, “And since when do you judge the results of an ‘experiment’ based on only one test subject?”

Sherlock shook his head, “I wasn’t _done_ experimenting. That’s why I sent him up there. I wouldn’t have forced him to copulate with you. I just forced him to kiss you to ‘break the ice’.”

“Your lucky I didn’t break his arm! I’m not _gay_ Sherlock. I’m only interested in _you._ Your entire theory is flawed!”

“Clearly you don’t know your own mind, because you’ve been obsessing over Lestrade since I first put him under thrall.”

“Clearly you don’t know how normal minds work, because I’ve been obsessing over _you_ since the day I met you, and _him taking you from me_ since you put him under thrall!”

John flushed in shame once he realized what he’d said and Sherlock looked alarmed.

“I can’t remove the thrall,” He stated, with something close to worry... for Sherlock.

“I know that.”

“He’s going to crave my company as you do.”

“I know that, too.”

“I don’t know if I can give you what you want, John.”

“I know, _I know!_ ”

“I may still be unable to be aroused. We won’t know until tomorrow. Perhaps even a few days after as my body might not be completely healed just because the stitches are.”

“You said a minute ago that you have an attraction to the male form?”

Sherlock shrugged, “I find it more aesthetically pleasing. If I were to have a sexuality, I assume it would be homosexual.”

“You assume?”

“I have sufficient evidence to theorize as such.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“I enjoy watching you whether naked or clothed, I enjoy it when you pleasure yourself, and I have achieved partial erections only when viewing men in various sexual scenarios.”

“How many sexual scenarios have you toyed with?” John asked, wondering how far off his view of ‘virgin Sherlock’ really was.

“I found various types of porn on your laptop and watched it. You do realize that makes your claim to heterosexuality rather void? You are, at the very least, bisexual.”

“I only watched it to see if I reacted to anyone besides _you_.”

Sherlock looked oddly relieved, “Did you?”

“No! I like tits, girl bits, and _you_ , you colossal wanker! And frankly, even the girl bits aren’t doing it for me anymore!”

Sherlock smiled like sunlight and put up his hands to ask for John to help him up. John grasped his hands and helped him rise; he wobbled a bit from the medication but leaned on him for more than stability. John gently held Sherlock close in his arms, petting his curls and breathing in his aroma.

“What about Lestrade?” John asked gently into Sherlock’s bony shoulder.

“Yeah? What about Lestrade?” Lestrade demanded from behind John, his voice filled with rather justifiable anger.

John leaned away from Sherlock and glanced at Lestrade to make sure he wasn’t planning any violence, but the man was leaning against the doorway to 221B with a scowl on his face and no weapon in hand.

“Sherlock, you owe him an apology,” John scolded, “You can’t manipulate people for the sake of experiments… or to play matchmaker.”

Sherlock sniffed, “I was just trying to take care of you both. I’m responsible for your happiness.”

“Clearly that backfired. Apologize.”

“I’m sorry, Lestrade, I won’t force you to kiss someone again.”

Lestrade scoffed in disgust and stormed down the stairs.

****

Chapter 12: Meeting 

[ _ http://www.asexuality.org/wiki/index.php?title=Demisexual _ ](http://www.asexuality.org/wiki/index.php?title=Demisexual) __

**_ Demisexual _ ** __

_ A demisexual is a person who does not experience sexual attraction unless they form a strong emotional connection with someone. It's more commonly seen in but by no means confined to romantic relationships. The term demisexual comes from the orientation being "halfway between" sexual and asexual. Nevertheless, this term does not mean that demisexuals have an incomplete or half-sexuality, nor does it mean that sexual attraction without emotional connection is required for a complete sexuality. In general, demisexuals are not sexually attracted to anyone of any gender; however, when a demisexual is emotionally connected to someone else (whether the feelings are romantic love or deep friendship), the demisexual experiences sexual attraction and desire, but only towards the specific partner or partners.  _

_ When describing demisexuality as an orientation to sexuals, sexuals often mistake it as an admirable choice rather than an innate  _ [ _ orientation _ ](http://www.asexuality.org/wiki/index.php?title=Sexual_orientation) _. Demisexuals are not choosing to abstain; they simply lack sexual attraction until a close relationship is formed.  _

John awoke and reached for Sherlock instinctively only to find the bed empty and cold. He’d been up for some time. Sighing at the silly fantasy he’d had about settling their morning wood together like a couple of curious mates at Uni, he dragged himself up out of bed, saw to his morning ablutions, and then staggered out into the kitchen to make coffee. Sherlock didn’t mentally call out to him like he usually did with his breakfast requirements, though, and it gave John pause. He checked the living room and found it empty – no sulking dragon-man to be seen.

_ Sherlock? Where are you? Are you all right? _

_ <We were out of milk so I took your wallet and went to the store.> _

_ You… you went shopping. On your own. To get milk. _

_ <Yes.> _

_ Are you all right? _

_ <Of course. I CAN set foot outside the flat without you, you know.> _

_ I’m aware of that, hell you vanished for three solid days without explanation just before we shipped out. What I meant was, are you okay otherwise? _

_ <Otherwise being?> _

_ Are you… I don’t know… upset? Avoiding me? Regretting something? _

_ <If this is regarding the incident with you and Lestrade last night, I have already apologized for that.> _ The dragon’s scowl could practically be heard it was so intense.

_ I didn’t mean… just answer my question. _

_ <I. Am. Fine.> _

_ Good. Pick up some eggs while you’re at it. _

No answer. Git.

John set about using the last of the eggs, making coffee, and headed down to get the paper since Sherlock would likely tear it apart once he got his hands on it. John preferred to read it first since the man seemed to enjoy pulling out the relevant pages and making stacks of them according to some odd system only he understood. At this rate they would eventually fill up the flat, though John had no idea what he was doing besides being a packrat. He’d noted the dragon got peculiar attachments to items. He had brought no material possessions into their union besides a creepy human skull and a riding crop. Both had alarmed John, though for different reasons. Now he occasionally thought back to the riding crop and how lovely it would be to tan the stubborn man’s hide with it.

The door banged and Sherlock slipped up into the flat, stark naked with a bag in one hand and a second newspaper in the other. He was scowling until he saw the newspaper in John’s hand, then he grinned.

“Ah! Good. I’ll start on this one then take that one when you’re through.”

John noted that it was a different paper than his just before Sherlock dropped the bag on the floor and threw himself on the couch to read his, a look of barely restrained excitement on his face. John headed over to salvage the groceries, frowning as he tossed out three broken eggs. Luckily the milk carton hadn’t ruptured.

“What has you so bothered?” John asked.

“A serial killer, apparently. Three people have been found dead under suspicion of suicide.”

“If its suicide then doesn’t serial killer sort of not work for the description?”

“The police are wrong; they are not suicides. They’re murders.”

“You know this in that weird way you know everything about someone when you first meet them?”

“It is not,” Sherlock snapped, lowering the paper, “weird. I know things about people because I _see_ instead of just _looking_. I deduce based on evidence in my surroundings. Lestrade is essential in this. I just need Mycroft to get a move on it and get him promoted to a position I can utilize.”

“Wait… wait…” John put his coffee down and moved from his chair to the sofa beside Sherlock, “You enthralled Lestrade so you could have a man in the police force?”

“Yes.”

“But… why?”

“Because I’m _bored_ , John. Shooting and ripping things apart in Afghanistan was one thing, it at least kept me physically distracted protecting you, and once my body ran down to nothing my mind could rest, but now I have _nothing_. Just like before we joined up. My brain is going to rot.”

“So you’re telling me… what? You’re going to help him solve cases?”

“No. I’m going to solve cases _for_ him.”

“Sherlock, the police don’t hire amateur detectives. They won’t work with you.”

“I knew everything about Lestrade from one glance, what makes you think I’m an _amateur._ I’ve been solving things like this since University.”

“Really?” John asked, truly interested. Sherlock rarely talked about himself.

“Yes, you see there was this fellow – as close to a friend as I’ve ever had before you – and his name was Victor Trevor…”

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade was getting settled into his new office with hands that nearly shook with anticipation. He didn’t care that he hadn’t technically earned this promotion; he’d given years of good service to the Yard and he fucking deserved it. Now he was in a position to make a difference, to actually _do_ something about all those poor souls who were raped and killed every day. He was well aware Sherlock had _something_ planned for him, but all the dragon had been doing so far was muttering ‘wrong’ in his ear all morning with no obvious connection as to what it was.

A sharp rap startled Lestrade and he looked up to see a smartly dressed, auburn haired young man smiling a crocodile smile from the doorway.

“Can I help you?” Lestrade asked, giving the handsome man a once over.

“Oh, I most certainly hope so. I’m Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft. I’d like to discuss your… living arrangements with him.”

“Ah, that bit hasn’t even been discussed with me yet, I’m afraid,” Lestrade chuckled.

“Well, don’t let me stop you,” Mycroft stated with a wry grin and a cold glare. Lestrade had a feeling Mycroft wasn’t thrilled with him being Sherlock’s thrall.

_ Hey, Sherlock, am I moving in with you? _

_ <I don’t know, ask John.> _

_ I don’t think I have his number. _

_ <Judging by his scowl, the answer is no.> _

_ You two boned yet? _

_ <Don’t be crude.> _

_ Didn’t think so. _

“Looks like I’m in the market for an apartment,” Lestrade smiled, “Don’t suppose you arranged that for me, too?”

“I suppose suitable living arrangements could be found,” Mycroft stated, and Lestrade watched as the ginger looked him over appreciatively now that he had been booted from 221B.

“Yeah, well, anything has to be better than the hotel room I’ve got now, eh?”

“I imagine it would be,” Mycroft smirked again.

< _That’s disgusting, he’s a complete wanker. > _

_ Oh, and what would you know about wanking? At least give the poor man head. _

_ <That is none of your business.> _

_ Neither is this any of yours. I suggest you figure out how to tune me out. _

_ <Moron.> _

_ Ponce. _

< _You do realize the hypocrisy in your taunt seeing as how my brother is /ahem/ male? >_

_ I’m okay with that. _

_ <Moron.> _

“So, Mycroft, are you free for dinner tonight?” Lestrade asked leaning against his desk and trying to show off the muscles in his arms from beneath his dress shirt.

“Ah, no,” Mycroft stated in a mocking tone, “You will be hearing from me about the flat. Good day, Detective. Keep Sherlock entertained and I’ll see you promoted again.”

With that the man turned and strolled slowly and elegantly from his office, down the hall, and into the nearest set of elevators. A lanky, attractive black woman – barely out of academy – was just getting off of them and she hurried to his office to salute him smartly.

“Police Constable Sally Donovan reporting for duty, sir.”

“You’re new here?”

“Er, yes sir, I was told I’d be expected.”

“I’m sure you were, it’s me who wasn’t. The promotion came through today so the fellow who was expecting you left me with a desk full of files and… well, that’s about it. I think he left a coffee cup, too; Styrofoam one.”

Sally tried and failed to hold back a smile and Greg grinned warmly until she let it crack.

“What can I help with, Sir?”

“You can find your bloody file in this mess,” Lestrade laughed, and she started digging with gusto.

Ah, new recruits. So eager to please and so bloody stupid. He’d break her in a bit and then send her out with someone experienced. That was the usual method. She seemed smart enough; she’d do just fine.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John was sitting quietly in contemplation of the blog he’d started per his therapist in order to cope with life outside the military. The thing was, nothing happened to him anymore; at least nothing that he felt was blog worthy. Well, except his dragon issues.

_ Today I woke up hoping to finally have the chance to fuck Sherlock Holmes, dragon-man and bastard extraordinaire.  _

_ Delete, delete, delete. _

“John?” Sherlock called softly.

“Mmm?”

“If I am still unable to get and maintain a suitable level of arousal, will you seek satisfaction elsewhere?”

John sighed and put the laptop aside, “No, Sherlock, you made it perfectly clear in Afghanistan that I’m not to touch or be touched by anyone else… with Lestrade as a possible exception, apparently.”

“I would be comfortable with sharing you with another thrall, yes, but only because you’d _both_ be mine.”

“Well, can I pick the next one?”

“No.”

John waited until it was obvious Sherlock wasn’t going to explain his reasoning.

“Why?” He asked in frustration.

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“It doesn’t… Fine. Fine, just… let me know who I’m allowed to have sex with, yeah?” John snapped irritably.

“Mmm.”

“Out of vague curiosity, are you on that list?” John asked in frustration.

“Difficult to tell,” Sherlock sighed from his spot draped over ‘his’ chair.

“Well, it would probably be easier to deduce if you weren’t on the other side of the room!”

Sherlock sat up and watched John carefully from his seat. John shifted a bit on the sofa and wondered if he’d gone too far.

“Explain,” Sherlock stated.

“Explain what?” John asked in bewilderment.

“Explain how this occurs. I realize most pornos start with cheesy lines, but I assume that is inaccurate to life – as are basically most features about their penises including the length of time remaining erect.”

“Ah, well… we could date?”

“We know each other intimately in every way except for intercrural or anal sex. That’s enough to be getting on with, don’t you think?”

“Well, that’s a good point. After dating most people start with kissing.”

“Also something we’ve already done.”

“Yes, but that’s something you can do over and again, Sherlock. It’s a great way to get things…er… started between two people.”

“Very well, you may begin,” Sherlock stated, and waited right where he was.

John felt a pang of irritation followed by one of desire. Sherlock was giving him _permission_ to touch him! John swallowed against his suddenly dry mouth and crossed the room to tug Sherlock’s stiff figure to the couch where they’d have more room.

“Try relaxing a bit,” John suggested, rubbing his shoulders gently.

Sherlock shrugged him off and scowled: “I am not a _pet_ , do not _stroke_ me.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stroke you?” John whispered into Sherlock’s ear, and cupped a hand over his groin.

“Ah, apparently the pornography was more accurate than I originally surmised,” Sherlock stated dryly.

“Sherlock!” John groaned, “I need you to work _with_ me here!”

“I’m still not entirely certain I want to do this, John. Why don’t you try seducing me?”

“Because I’ve never seduced a cactus before,” John sighed, “Listen, why don’t we try being a bit more… natural about it. Let’s shower together. You used to love me washing you.”

“Alright,” Sherlock agreed, looking cheered.

They headed for their shower, John stripping along the way. He was already half hard and hoped a bit of soap and water would do it for Sherlock. Sherlock was testing the water and humming eagerly. He _loved_ to be pampered and he especially loved it when John pampered him.

John soaped up his hands and stroked them in circles around the dragon’s shoulders where his tension tended to accumulate due to the wings he sprouted in dragon form. His dragon leaned back and moaned appreciatively, his moan turning into something of a groaning purr. Sherlock loved to be washed and have his hair stroked, no matter what he said about being a pet. John slipped his hands around to wash the man’s chest, pressing his erection lengthwise between his arsecheeks as he did so. Sherlock gasped in surprise, became tense a moment, and then relaxed just before John thought he was about to flee him again. John worked his way down and wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s quickly stiffening member.

“I thought… I thought it wouldn’t be so awful this time,” Sherlock whimpered.

“Are you in pain?” John asked in alarm, his hands releasing Sherlock’s cock to turn him around.

Sherlock shook his head quickly, drops of water showering down on John who looked up into a flushed and confused face. He was worrying his bottom lip and his eyebrows were drawn together.

“No pain?” John asked again, still concerned.

“Not… pain, just… uncomfortable. My… penis aches in a… _non-painful_ way… and I feel tense everywhere… I believe I may feel some sort of _pressure_ building.”

“Here?” John asked, reaching down and cupping the man’s bollocks gently.

Sherlock gasped and gripped John’s biceps with both hands. John was so hard he was sure he was leaking precum by the gallon. He wanted… _needed_ to satisfy this man. Sherlock _had to_ feel pleasure tonight and John _needed_ to be the one to give it to him.

“Sherlock, will you let me?” John whispered, knowing full well the dragon would know what he meant.

Sherlock hesitated only a moment, and then nodded his approval. John pressed close to the beautiful man. He wanted to take _both_ their members in hand, but the height difference was too extreme and he didn’t fancy standing on tiptoe in a shower. He thought if he coaxed Sherlock into moving to a different location the mood would pass and the dragon would avoid him. So he would take care of Sherlock’s needs first, and if the brilliant man let him satisfy himself by frotting against him or (Christmas!) reciprocated, then he would count it as a bonus.

John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s long shaft and stroked it while he watched those pale green eyes widen in surprise and pleasure. John moved slowly, his hand stroking along the length and tugging the foreskin over the head before running his thumb over the tip and then gliding it down his frenulum. Sherlock was soon a panting mess, his hips pumping for more friction while his head fell back to collide with the wall.

John wanted to bring his other hand into play, but he couldn’t bring himself to release the tight hold he had on him. He kept his arm wrapped around that lithe hip and resisted the urge to cup his buttocks. It wasn’t the time or the mood for such things; he was pleasuring Sherlock and Sherlock alone.

“John!” Sherlock cried, his voice tense, “I need… I need more… please!”

John groaned at the sound of that aristocratic dragon _begging_ him, and quickly sped up his strokes to a speed that would bring him off quickly. He pressed a thigh between Sherlock’s legs and rubbed his bollocks with it. Sherlock dropped down a bit and shamelessly rutted against his hip and thigh; his grip had left John’s upper arms and moved to wrap around him tightly. Sherlock’s breath was hot on John’s ear as the man panted and whimpered. John’s own aching prick was trapped between them now and the feel of the genius’ flesh pressed against his own was almost unbearably stimulating.

John felt Sherlock’s cock swell just that bit more that meant orgasm was around the corner and added a twist to his wrist that tugged the man’s climax from him as effectively as releasing the plug in a dam. Sherlock threw his head back and let out a strangled cry, his hips jerking without rhythm as his hands clutched John wantonly. He was the personification of beauty and John was surprised by his own orgasm as it tore through him a few seconds after Sherlock’s.

“Ah! Ah! Oh, gods, Sherlock! Yes!!”

“Ohhhhh!” Sherlock breathed, as though he had just realized something utterly wonderful.

Perhaps he had because he caught John’s lips with a passionate kiss.

****

Chapter 13: Bonding Time

_ http://www.thefreedictionary.com/bonding _

_ bond·ing  _

_ n. _

_ 1\. a. The formation of a close human relationship, as between friends: "He says he has rediscovered the comforts of male bonding in a Washington men's group" (Marilyn Chase). _

_ b. The emotional and physical attachment occurring between a parent or parent figure, especially a mother, and offspring, that usually begins at birth and is the basis for further emotional affiliation. _

_ 2\. a. A dental technique in which a material such as plastic or porcelain is attached to the surface of a discolored or damaged tooth. _

_ b. The technique of using adhesives to attach orthodontic brackets or other appliances to the teeth. _

Sherlock was, by his very definition, a curious person; which was why John was so utterly shocked to find he did not jump on board and want to learn every single aspect about sex. Instead John woke again in an empty bed the next morning and sought out Sherlock to find him fiddling with a violin.

“Look what Mycroft’s sent me. He said it was a ‘thank you’, but I’ve done nothing to be thanked for,” Sherlock stated, his face filled with suspicion, “I’m searching it for bugs or traps of some kind, but I can’t seem to find any. I need a lab. I wonder if St. Barts will let me use theirs again? That Molly girl was awfully helpful while you were ill.”

“Molly?” John asked, still blinking the sleep from his eyes.

“Tea would be lovely, yes.”

“Right. Molly?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Funny little thing. She seems to have a slight crush on me, although I may be misreading her. I’m often baffled by attraction – sexual or otherwise. I’m in the mood for eggs today, are you?”

“Yeah, sure, anything that gets you to eat. Hell, you want haggis for breakfast I’ll make it for you.”

“Unlikely and inconvenient. Haggis made properly takes at least half a day.”

“Not the way my mum made it, but I see your point.”

“That sounds good.”

John paused a moment, thinking the sentence didn’t quite jive, and then decided he’d better check just in case.

“What sounds good?”

“Biscuits.”

“Ah, sure, biscuits, tea, and eggs. How do you want your eggs?” John asked, rolling his eyes.

“However you’re having it will do.”

“Poached?”

“Maybe it’s got poison on the strings…”

“Poached it is. Do you even know how to play the violin?”

“I haven’t for some years, but yes. It helps me think. I’ve quite missed it, but my last violin met an unfortunate fate.”

“That fate would be?”

“Mycroft sat on it.”

“Ah. Sherlock, are we bonded?”

“Hmm?”

“Bonded, are we bonded?”

“Of course, what makes you think otherwise?”

“It’s just… I don’t know, I guess I pictured something a bit… how can you tell, exactly?”

“Because your entire world revolves around me.”

“You think _everyone’s_ entire world revolves around you.”

“Yes, but in your case it’s true.”

John didn’t know how to feel about that so he started making breakfast. While they ate, Sherlock still fiddling with the violin, John broached the subject again.

“Is there anything I should know about being bonded? I tried to look it up but there isn’t much on the subject.”

“If I die you’ll likely lose all interest in life and commit suicide,” Sherlock informed the violin in a monotone voice.

“Oh. Well, good to know.”

“Do you like the violin?”

“I don’t know much about them, but that seems a good one, I suppose.”

“I meant its music,” Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Oh! Yes, I suppose, if it’s played well.”

Sherlock lifted the violin, pressed bow to string, and the flat filled with glorious music. John’s fork clattered to the plate in surprise and he was glad he had no food in his mouth as he was gaping.

“You’re wasted in this flat,” John stated once the soft notes had died out, “You should be in a concert hall.”

“Boring.”

John laughed a bit and shook his head: “So we don’t have a ceremony or… I don’t know, I sort of pictured you biting my neck to put a mark on me or something.”

“Most dragons will have their bonded get a tattoo of themselves or something representing them somewhere visible. I hadn’t broached the subject because I assumed you’d refuse.”

A twist went through John’s stomach and Sherlock looked up in surprise and raised one eyebrow as he glanced over John’s body appraisingly.

“Oh… well… isn’t that erotic,” Sherlock murmured.

“It’s… what?” John asked, his breath coming fast. He was rock hard and had no idea why.

“The idea of my mark being on your body excites you,” Sherlock stated.

“A bit, yeah,” John replied, his voice cracking like a teenager.

“Mmm,” Sherlock growled, and slid down to his knees.

John was frozen in place, utterly shocked as he felt Sherlock pull the fly of his sleep pants open. He moaned in bliss as the man swallowed his cock down in one go, suckling hungrily on the tip before bobbing his head and applying just the right amount of suction.

“Oh, gods, you’re far too good at this,” John moaned, gripping the edge of the table with both hands.

< _I’m borrowing memories from your mind. You do like this sort of thing, don’t you? You can’t even remember their faces, just what they did and how it felt… my, my, is that a fantasy of me doing this? Hmmmm, you need to learn to ask for what you want, John. >_

“Oh, gods, this. I want this.”

< _I’m sure you do. Do you want me to swallow? Yes? Hmmm… deepthroat? I suppose I could try… >_

“Oh, fuck!” John shouted as Sherlock took him all the way into the back of his throat.

The dragon gagged a bit but then found a comfortable rhythm and kept at it. John’s cup clattered to the floor when he reached up to wipe sweat from his forehead and knocked it to the ground. It shattered everywhere but he barely noticed. He was busy pulling his hair in frustration as Sherlock teased the slit of his dick before swallowing him down again.

“Oh, fuck, just… more! Stop teasing!”

< _But you love the teasing. >_

“I’ve had enough! Fuck! Sherlock, I need to come! Now!”

_ More oh, god, yes, just like that, fuck, fondle my… YES!! _

< _Your lips are saying stop but your mind is screaming go. >_

“Fuck my mind!”

_ <I’d rather blow it, thanks.> _

Sherlock chuckled around John’s cock and he felt his muscles tighten in anticipation. He was hovering right over the edge but Sherlock was teasing him and bringing him back down again. He pulled off and gently ran his teeth down the underside of his cock as he slid back down before wrapping his lips around John’s cock and then sucking all the way up.

_ I want to fuck your face! _

“Shit! Don’t listen to that! I didn’t mea…”

_ <I’m not adverse to you…> _

John grabbed Sherlock by his curly hair and started moving his head fast and hard up and down his shaft, just barely avoiding knocking his head against the table. Sherlock finally took him seriously and hollowed his cheeks as he sucked _hard_ on John’s swollen member while simultaneously stroking his bollocks. John was making all manner of embarrassing noises, but then Sherlock started moaning too and John cried out as he spilled himself down the back of Sherlock’s throat. He released Sherlock immediately, shocked by his aggressive behavior and more than a bit worried that Sherlock would flee from him. Instead he found himself being tugged off the stool by the hand.

John stood up, his quickly diminishing prick still dangling out the front of his sleep pants, and found himself pinned to the counter as Sherlock pressed his own engorged member against John’s leg and rutted against him frantically.

“Let me…”

“Can’t!” Sherlock gasped, and came hard inside his pants.

Sherlock clung to him, trembling a bit and breathing hard.

“That was… surprisingly fulfilling,” Sherlock panted.

“You think that was good, wait till we actually make love,” John panted gently stroking Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock winced and John drew back, dropping his hand to his side.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I know you can’t… reciprocate like that.”

“I wasn’t wincing at what you said… I… I am very fond of you, John.”

“Oh, well, that’s a relief, but then…”

“I’m uncomfortable about the idea of being penetrated, or penetrating you for that matter.”

“Well,” John sighed as he tucked himself back inside his sleep pants, “I can see your concern. I’m not too excited about the being penetrated part myself, but while it will probably hurt a bit at first there’s a little organ inside-”

“I know what a prostate is, John,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Right, of course you do, sorry.”

“I’ve never been good at being touched. You’re the only person I’ve ever been physically close to. Mummy and Daddy weren’t the loving sort.”

“You weren’t ever hugged or held as a child?” John asked, pulling Sherlock back into his arms.

Sherlock wrapped both arms around John’s shoulders and hung them loosely there, his eyes narrowed and staring over John’s head as he thought about it.

“Not that I recall. Perhaps when I was very young, but my memory goes back fairly far and I don’t remember anything tender. My parents were busy often; we mainly saw them at dinner and for a short period afterwards while Father took his evening pipe and whiskey and mother read to us for a bit. I had a governess for most things, but she wasn’t every affectionate either. She treated our injuries and wiped our noses, but her main function was as a teacher. Until I was about ten I never saw another child besides Mycroft, and he was an adult by then.”

“You… you really meant it when you said you didn’t have friends. You never had any!” John realized in horror.

“Not really, no. Mycroft and I were rather sick of each other by the time he went away to University. I was glad to see him go. I had rather be alone.”

“Do I smother you sometimes?” John asked in concern.

“No… No you’re different,” Sherlock leaned forward and rested his head on John’s shoulder, “You’re warm and soft and comfortable. I hate being away from you.”

“I’m… glad. Thank you, Sherlock. I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned, but it’s a real honor to be a part of your life.”

“Mmm, would it be a real honor to wash all this sticky nonsense off of me?”

John chuckled, “Come on then.”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade joined them for dinner, walking through the door with a case file under one arm and a box of takeout under the other. He was whistling to himself and when he’d placed everything down he walked up to Sherlock and kissed both his cheeks.

“I don’t know what you did, what your brother did, or what I have to do in exchange for it, but I’m all yours!” Lestrade announced cheerfully before tossing himself down on the sofa.

“You’re awfully cheerful today,” John smiled, possessively tightening his grip on the dragon relaxing against his side. He’d been going through the paper looking for job openings.

“I’ve just been back from my new flat. It’s perfect. I can walk to work if I have to!”

“Mycroft is very resourceful,” John nodded.

“John is getting a tattoo of me on his body,” Sherlock announced proudly.

“Cheers!” Lestrade exclaimed, but gave John an incredulous look.

“I want it, honest,” John laughed.

“Well that’s… I mean with all the cuddly jumpers I just never pictured…”

“Apparently I’m game,” John shrugged, but blushed a bit.

“Ah, his dragon form, I hope.”

“Oh, yes, definitely,” John nodded firmly.

“Is that a case file?” Sherlock interrupted, staring at it greedily.

“Yeah, I… What am I doing with this?” Lestrade asked, staring at it in confusion.

Sherlock snatched it from his hand and flipped it open.

“You’re not supposed to see that!” Lestrade argued, but Sherlock compelled him to sit and the man did… right on the coffee table, “Damn it, Sherlock! I’m serious!”

“So am I. I’m going _mad_ with boredom. There’s nothing to do in this flat except bother John.”

“I’m not bothered…”

“You will be. My brain is starting to rot… this is interesting. _Rache_. That’s German for revenge.”

“Oh?” Lestrade asked, “We thought we were looking for someone named Rachel.”

“Don’t be thick,” Sherlock scolded, “Why would the killer write ‘Rachel’ at both crime scenes, but leave off the ‘l’ both times? Once could be excused as being interrupted, or even the victim dying before completing their task, but twice?”

“That is a good point,” Lestrade nodded, looking sheepish.

“This second scene, the one in the room for let, was there anything found near the body?”

“Just a few odds and ends for travel, a glass of water, and a pill case.”

“A pill case!” Sherlock exclaimed in excitement.

“No, don’t waste your energy. They were sugar pills. Lab tested one.”

“What, just one?”

“Well… yeah.”

Sherlock gave Lestrade a look that would have made Einstein feel stupid.

“I’ll… I’ll just phone the lab,” Lestrade muttered, pulling out his mobile and thumbing down his contact list as he blushed hotly.

“I’d like to see the wedding band found at the first crime scene, too,” Sherlock ordered.

Lestrade gave John a helpless look and started rattling off instructions to the person on the other end of the phone.

****

Chapter 14: Hope

****

_ Miriam-Webster Dictionary: _

_ MARRIAGE: _

_ 1a : the state of being united to a person of the opposite sex as husband or wife in a consensual and contractual relationship recognized by law (2) : the state of being united to a person of the same sex in a relationship like that of a traditional marriage <same-sex marriage> _

_ b : the mutual relation _ _of married_ _persons : wedlock_

_ c : the institution _ _whereby individuals are joined in a marriage_

_ 2: an act of marrying _ _or the rite by which the married status is affected_ _; especially: the wedding ceremony and attendant festivities or formalities_

_ 3: an intimate or close union <the marriage of painting and poetry — J. T. Shawcross> _

Lestrade showed up at lunchtime with a blank look on his face, which quickly dissolved into outright rage. John had been making cucumber sandwiches in the kitchen while Sherlock was moving some of his lab stuff up into John’s former bedroom. He still refused to do _all_ his experiments there, but agreed to do the ones that didn’t require a nearby sink. John was not comforted.

“Where are you Sherlock? You little fucker!” Lestrade shouted.

Sherlock flitted in on wings and landed on John’s shoulder with enough force to jar him.

“Listen here, wyrm!” Lestrade raged, walking the few steps to John and Sherlock and reaching out to grab him.

John reacted instantly and Lestrade was facedown on the floor with a soldier on his back snarling in his ear.

“John… the fuck! Get off me!” Lestrade struggled, but John was not to be budged.

“You try to touch him like that again and I’ll break your arm in seven places. I can promise you, you’ll never use it again no matter how fucking good your doctor is,” John growled into his ear, “You don’t want to push your luck with me, Lestrade. _Never_ forget I was a soldier. I killed people. I’ve got no qualms about doing it again.”

 “You were a doctor!”

“I HAD BAD DAYS!”

Sherlock’s bare ankle appeared in the midst of the conversation on the floor like a beacon of sanity.

“That’s quite enough, I think, let him up John.”

John released Lestrade and stepped back quickly but did _not_ come off guard.

“Fuck,” Lestrade gasped rolling his shoulders and checking himself over for injuries, “I take back the cuddly jumper statement from yesterday.”

John nodded sharply, still on edge. His blood was pounding through his vanes rather alarmingly. He felt almost giddy. Sherlock moved to him and slipped both arms around his neck, looking down at him with a worried look on his face.

“You really thought he was going to hurt me?”

“I was,” Lestrade snipped unhelpfully.

John’s entire body twitched, but Sherlock shushed him gently: “At ease, my beautiful soldier, at ease. I could have stopped him in an instant.”

“You were _small_ …”

“And you know full well how very large and toothsome I can become in an instant. He wouldn’t have done anything I hadn’t let him anyway, I control him completely when necessary.”

“Speaking of which, I was _on duty_ when you decided to fucking dragon-nap me!” Lestrade snapped.

Neither of them answered. Sherlock had leaned in for a kiss and it had quickly become passionate. John felt himself pressed to the counter edge as Sherlock hardened and his hips began to seek out friction. John moaned enthusiastically and sank to the floor to swallow him down. Sherlock gasped and thrust weakly into John’s mouth while Lestrade swore and stomped back out the door. Then, judging from the stomping sounds, he turned around and came back in.

“Fucking hell, Sherlock, I don’t want to watch you bugger him!”

“I’m not done with you yet,” Sherlock panted. John gave him a much firmer suck to remind him he didn’t _need_ Lestrade; John had it all quite neatly covered, “Oh, gods, I didn’t mean like that. I don’t need him like that. Oh, fuck that’s good!”

“I didn’t even like men before I met you now I’m lusting after your brother and watching you get sucked off. Fucking hell,” Lestrade complained.

Sherlock’s cock flagged.

“Well _that’s_ a mood killer,” Sherlock growled, “Go into the living room and desist this repulsive talk of my brother.”

Lestrade stomped off and John applied a bit more friction and a bit less suction until Sherlock was hard again then bobbed his head enthusiastically. John moaned hungrily around Sherlock’s cock and the man responded in kind, panting and tugging gently on John’s short hair, which had finally gotten long enough to get a grip on. John cupped Sherlock’s buttocks and gave them a playful squeeze, thrilled when the man gasped enthusiastically.

John had an idea then, and slipped a finger in beside Sherlock’s cock to saturate it with saliva. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, but John highly suspected that was for his benefit. Once he had his finger well and truly wet he slipped his finger back to the dragon’s cleft and stroked his soaked finger up and down. Sherlock shivered and John slipped off his cock to spit on his finger again and then latched back on as he slid his finger deeper inside those round orbs to stroke Sherlock’s entrance. Sherlock gasped and stilled his hips as John gently explored his rosebud, stroking it until Sherlock relaxed and sighed in obvious pleasure. John slid his finger in to the first knuckled and let Sherlock relax around it a moment. Then he slid it back out and a bit further in. He kept at this slowly, his tongue lathing Sherlock’s cockhead and teasing the slit.

By the time he was easily pressing his finger in and out Sherlock was panting and moaning in distress from John’s teasing.

“John… please…” Sherlock pleaded hoarsely.

John swallowed Sherlock’s cock down, did a mental calculation to accommodate for the angle, and sought out Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock cried out and nearly choked John in his enthusiasm as his hips snapped back and forth. John wrapped his fist around the base of Sherlock’s cock and relaxed his jaw as the dragon-man pulsed in his mouth. A moment later Sherlock groaned out his orgasm and John swallowed his come down with a pleased hum.

 Sherlock leaned back, supporting himself against the table with one hand, while he stared down at John in shock and panted a moment.

“That was brilliant,” Sherlock gasped.

“That’s my line,” John chuckled, then stood up and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s.

A knock at the door had them both groaning in frustration. John palmed his erection, moving it to a more comfortable position, and Sherlock called for the person to enter. Sherlock tossed himself into his usual chair and John slid into his. Lestrade was sitting on the couch, red faced and annoyed, when a tall ruddy fellow walked into the room. His cheeks were sunken and he looked as though he’d led a hard life.

“Cab for one of you?” The man asked.

John found himself standing on Sherlock’s puppet strings, his body completely out of his control. As was his mouth.

“Ah, yes,” John replied cheerfully, as he stood and indicated the suitcases he’d only just noticed, “If you’ll just help me down with these…”

“Where are your clothes?” The man gaped at Sherlock, who smiled like a Cheshire cat.

“Ah, you’re from America*, aren’t you,” John stated with all of Sherlock’s pompous mannerisms, “Yes, he’s a dragon. Yes, you should bow. No, he won’t be putting on any ‘underwear’**- or whatever you quant people call it.”

The man hesitated; glancing to the other two men in the room and clearly waiting for them to crack a grin and admit it was a joke. Lestrade gave the man a disgusted look and mimed bowing from his spot on the sofa with a dramatic fluttering of fingers. Nervous, the man made a half bow. Sherlock rewarded him by lowering his eyebrow and pointing to the baggage. Just as the man stepped forward to take hold of the bags John’s puppet body stepped forward and caught him by the arms, dragging them backwards and pinning them behind him. John pulled and the man shouted and put up a fight, but he was already quite well caught and soon stilled.

“What is this?”

< _You are responsible for the deaths of two men, do you confess? >_

“You are responsible for the deaths of two men, do you confess?” John parroted, then gave Sherlock a look that he hoped conveyed how ridiculous and unlikely that was.

“I… Yes. How did you know?”

John and Lestrade both gaped, but Sherlock preened like the peacock he clearly thought he was. He took a breath to launch into an explanation, apparently with his own voice, and John tensed in anticipation of hearing him speak in front of a non-thrall for the first time.

“Just a minute now,” Lestrade interrupted, “I have to read him his rights.”

Lestrade went through the procedure while Sherlock bounced on the balls of his toes like an impatient toddler. John felt about the same, but for different reasons.

“Right then,” Lestrade stated once the man had firmly waved his rights, “We get him down to the station then I want a statement – from _both_ of you. You, too, John.”

“I don’t know anything!” John insisted.

Sherlock snorted and gave John his ‘that’s obvious’ look.

_ Arse, _ John mentally snarled.

Sherlock gave him a saucy wink and headed out the door ahead of Lestrade. John grumbled and followed.

Once in Lestrade’s police car the man explained to John why he was so eager to confess.

“I’m not long for this world, doctor,” He stated, nodding when John gave him a startled look at his knowledge of his occupation, “I can tell. I’m clever. It’s how I’ve survived all this time. Place your hand over my heart, doctor.”

“You have an aortic aneurism!” John declared, “Lestrade, this man isn’t lying. He won’t survive to trial.”

“I doubt I’ll survive the night after that scuffle,” The man stated calmly, “Which is why I want to explain my actions. I don’t want to be known as a common cutthroat.”

When they reached the station Jefferson Hope, as he introduced himself as, was quickly processed and led to an interrogation room. Since he’d gone so compliantly Lestrade hadn’t handcuffed him. Now he offered the man tea and sat patiently to one side as Sherlock explained his role in the capture.

“I noted the tire marks in the crime scene photos, but when the neighbors were questioned there were no witnesses as to a vehicle having been in the area. Now that neighborhood – Lauriston Gardens – it’s populated with silly old ladies. Silly old ladies are better than CCTV. They know everything that goes on, are in everyone’s business, and very eager to give you details: so it made no sense that no vehicles were noted. So I asked myself, who could pass unseen through any neighborhood? Who could be allowed admittance into any home off of even the most scrutinized streets? Who do we trust absolutely, with our lives, property, and addresses, despite them being a complete stranger?”

“A cabby!” John exclaimed, and Sherlock nodded calmly.

“You saw him with your own eyes, Lestrade,” Sherlock informed, “Here is that drunk you were so annoyed by outside of the first crime scene. I only had to hack into employment records for all the cabby companies in London and find an American employee. I knew he’d be American because the victims were, and this was – as noted – revenge. You have a photograph of him in your records, so I already knew what our killer looked like – not that I couldn’t have devised some of that from his footprints. So I merely applied what I knew to what was available to me and found the answer to your problem. Simple deduction. He had returned to the first scene for the wedding band – the woman is the object of your revenge?”

“She was. I pried that ring off of her cold dead finger, and Drebber – the first man I killed – was her forced husband and the monster that caused her death by broken heart. Strangerson helped with the crime and killed her father, that’s the third ‘victim’ in order of actual death.”

“And the other?”

“The man what performed the ceremony while she begged to be killed instead.”

Lestrade gaped in horror: “She was forced to marry Drebber, by a priest who ignored her pleas not to, in the company of the man who killed her father?”

“Is it no wonder,” Hope asked with a sad look, “That she died within a month? I tell you my revenge was justified; yet I had no proof to press charges properly. Her grave will never be found and the words of a vagabond aren’t taken for much.”

“Yet you still gave them a choice,” Sherlock stated, “Why not just kill them outright?”

“I had decided swift vengeance was no vengeance at all, that I wanted them to face me and know what crimes they were being punished for. I have been hunting these men across continents and decades. When I had one in my grasp I knew one of us would die, but I didn’t have it in me to kill in cold blood. I’m not cutthroat, like I said.”

“Hence the pills,” Sherlock mused, nodding in remembrance.

“I got the poison out of a job I once had while searching for these so-called-men. I made them into pills myself: some harmless and some deadly. I decided when the day came I would give them one and take another myself. In that way we’d let the gods decide it. He might have begged for his, it was in his eyes, but I could see he knew it would be no good. We chose our pills and the gods favored me. You see, detectives? Doctor? There is justice.”

“The blood at the scene?” Lestrade asked.

“I have lung cancer as well from my years working a coal mine while searching for the brutes. I coughed it up while singing praises to the gods for ending my enemy and then put it to good use writing my reasons on that wall.”

“You’ve led a hard life,” John commented softly and the man nodded.

 “The priest and the killer?” Sherlock prompted, “I know you killed them together, but one was not murder.”

“No. Strangerson was too cowardly to take his pill. He saw the priest die and then threw himself upon me. I stabbed him in self-defense, but I have no doubt he would have ended up just as dead. The gods knew his crimes.”

“What… what group was this, exactly?” Lestrade asked in alarm.

“The Gray Men,” Hope explained, “They rescued my dear Lucy’s father when he was struggling on the streets with her as a baby. They were a cult living en-masse in a big cabin on the mountains, but they turned bitter one day. They had more women than men so they began to force the women to marry several to one man and then serve him as slaves. I almost got away with the both of them, but they came after us in hordes and took her from me while I was hunting for food, killing her father in front of her first. Drebber had five wives already when he married my sweet Lucy, and they mourned her death more than he did because she was a sweet and kind thing. I was lost on the mountain a month and arrived in time to pry that ring from her finger and see her buried without the mark of that beast on her hand. I… I’d sorely like to be buried with that ring. It’s all I have left of her, they gave their women no possessions.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Lestrade nodded.

The man gave them a weak smile and asked if he could be shown to his cell because he was tired from telling his story. Lestrade led the way and the man stretched out to rest in silence. He was dead by morning with a peaceful smile on his face as though he had found a peaceful end at last.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John watched in awe as Sherlock made himself the perfect size and wrapped himself around John’s bare torso. He glanced in the mirror and nodded at the positioning. Sherlock’s head rested on his right shoulder from behind and his body wrapped once around John’s torso so that the wings were stretched across his back, his feet supported on John’s hips in front of him, and Sherlock’s tail wrapped around John’s waist.

The tattoo artist walked around John taking multiple pictures from many angles before asking Sherlock and John to pose separately for some pictures. While they loaded onto the computer nearby he worked on some sketches. He then showed them his ideas and Sherlock picked one while John fiddled nervously with his shirt in his hand. Once they had that situated the man explained it would take several sittings to get the tattoo in place – one to outline it and two to ink it. Sherlock was annoyed by the delay but they dutifully made three appointments with recovery time in between.

< _Perhaps Lestrade will have cases for us. > _Sherlock griped.

John calmly called the clinic he’d been working at and explained that he needed off on certain days. John tried not to let his upset show through when Sarah, the head of the clinic, whinged about it while simultaneously hinting that he needed to ‘make it up to her’. He was rather annoyed by her. She was flirting with him persistently and he was starting to feel that if he didn’t relent and at least take her out for lunch then she would see him fired. He’d been a great worker so far – always on time and never shirking his duties despite Sherlock’s needy whining in his ear.

< _You should just quit. >_

_ I was trying hard to keep that from you, Sherlock, you should give me some privacy every once and again.  _

_ <You’re my husband in all but name, John. Your mind is mine.> _

_ I need some boundaries somewhere.  _

_ <Says the man who had his finger up my bum earlier.> _

John’s cock twitched in reminder that John hadn’t had a chance to get off that day or the following. Sherlock had been melancholy and avoiding his affections, choosing to play rather stirring but otherwise disjointed melodies on his violin. He was apparently in some sort of post-case-high funk and needed another fix. John had hoped their appointment with the tattoo artist would bring Sherlock out of it, but now he was moping again; his small dragon body wrapped cutely around John’s shoulders.

_ You should also come with me to the clinic like you used to so you won’t be so bored. _

_ <Dull.> _

John had gotten used to the stares, especially those of women who seemed to think dragon/scarves were sexy as hell. He was not prepared for his boss to come walking down the street, dressed quite nicely and clearly out for a day at the shops. He was equally not prepared for her to stare at him – and Sherlock – with open lust. It stirred something in him, but also repelled him. He belonged to Sherlock and wasn’t certain he wanted to stretch that even with the dragon’s permission if he should give it.

“John and…”

“Sherlock,” John supplied at her pause.

“Sire,” She curtsied politely. Sherlock raised his head and gave an uncharacteristic nod.

_ Please don’t make her a thrall. Please! _

< _Why not? She’s attractive, polite, and you’ve been thinking about her often while trying very hard to hide it from me._ >

_ Remember us talking about you assuming things that you only see snippets of in my head? She’s trying to climb into my pants at work. She makes me uncomfortable. _

_ <She… you’ve been thinking about her constantly… she… she’s been  _ sexually harassing _you_?! >

John was entirely unprepared for the scream of outrage and the tiny dragon streaking towards Sarah. Sarah screamed and ducked. Once Sherlock had more room behind her he transformed into his full form and John stood frozen in horror as people on the streets screamed and fled from his obvious wrath. John vaulted Sarah’s prone form and cut Sherlock’s advance off.

< _MOVE! >_

“No! Sherlock! Please don’t do this!” _You’re not welcome in the Queens Court; you’ll be tried if you kill her! I can’t lose you!_

Sherlock huffed, shuffled on his short legs, stretched his head from side to side like a cobra looking to strike, and then lowered it demurely as John slowly approached him with one hand outstretched. He held both arms out and gently caressed along Sherlock’s jaw, his hands stroking the ‘whiskers’ of flesh on either side of his flared nostrils that arched as his tension showed, appearing as a snarl.

“John!” Sarah called from behind him, “He’ll kill you!”

John held a hand behind him to signal her to silence and Sherlock growled low in his throat.

_ <You are mine. None may have you without my  _ express _permission. >_ Sherlock’s dragon form hissed outloud, steam curling from his lips as they retreated to show two rows of deadly sharp fangs.

_ None can. None will. I’m yours. Entirely yours.  _ “My love,” John soothed out loud, hoping his voice would add to his thoughts.

Sherlock keened and shrank down, his wings flapping strongly until he was small and pressed to John’s chest, trembling with rage and still growling angrily. He sounded like an angered cat, but John wasn’t fool enough to laugh at his diminished sounds. This was still a very deadly dragon with a very short temper and a very needy personality.

John took off at a run, heading for home via the back alleys and stairways Sherlock projected into his mind. The dragon wanted home instantly and he wanted John to carry him. John made no protest; his tired legs could be soothed later, preferably while wrapped around Sherlock’s waist.

*For those of you wondering, America has no dragons L. This is because they were all killed off during the American-Indian Wars. No one of European blood has produced a Dragon Blood Heir in the Americans since it’s discovery. I am considering doing a very sad, but very memorial-styled, historic story about the death of the last Native American Dragon for this universe, perhaps in a ballad style.

**Yes, I’m aware that underwear is used outside of America. I’m playing on Sherlock’s personality and aristocracy.

****

[ CHAPTER 15](http://archiveofourown.org/works/779420/chapters/1585296): Growing

This chapter may be a bit triggery – note the new tags for drug references. Also there’s a bit of dubious consent in here – though no rape or angst regarding the actions taken. I promise a good time had by all.

****

Special mention to Borderlinecrazy who gave me some advice on this chapter. Thanks!!

_ Encyclopædia Britannica _

_ Dragon Reproduction: _

_ While many dragons choose not to reproduce, this fault has a biological counterpart in that both female and male dragons are capable of being impregnated. While females give live births, male dragons are the creation of the myth that all dragons lay eggs. Male dragons bodies are physically incapable of sustaining a pregnancy or delivery, however they are able to lay a very small egg that then grows to the size of a watermelon. Since the baby inside is humanoid, the parents must break open the egg themselves; this vulnerability has led to more than one dragon egg dying before a parent realized gestation was complete. See ‘Gestation’ and ‘Dragonologist’ for more information.  _

__

John didn’t expect to be able to return to work. He showed up the next day in his usual outfit with his hair combed and his teeth brushed only because he had no intention of being fired while looking slovenly.

He walked in with his head held high and headed for his office while keeping an eye out for a box to pack his stuff up in. Sarah saw him shortly after he walked in the door, turned pale, and then quickly avoided him. John blinked in her direction and shut his office door behind him. He hoped she hadn’t just gone to call the police. A few minutes later he buzzed for the first patient and his day started as though nothing had ever happened.

John and Sarah had break together. That was when she usually flirted with him. This time she avoided so much as looking at him, going about her business with her head down.

“Ah, Sarah, I think we should…”

“I’m not flirting,” She said quickly and nervously.

“I know.”

“And I won’t do it again. Tell him, won’t you?” She pleaded.

“Yes. Yes, he’s probably… aware. Listen, I just wanted to apologize and assure you that…”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Sarah insisted, still talking to her roast beef sandwich, “You tried to protect me, from what I saw. You were a perfect gentleman… NOT that I mean anything by that, because I don’t. Not at all. Just… thank you. For not letting him… Well…”

“Yeah. Sure. You’re welcome.”

They had a few awkward moments of silence before John’s damnable curiosity got the better of him.

“So… did he… talk to you or something?”

“Your dragon?”

“Yes.”

“No. Gods, no, I’d have run the other way.”

“Oh, right, well, I guess I won’t bring him in to work, then,” John laughed a bit to show he was joking.

“He has every right to be here,” She said, her tone mechanical.

“Well, not if he’s going to terrify you. Not that he’d do that again, we had a _very_ long chat about it.”

“No, it’s beneficial to the clinic if you bring him in. He’s more than welcome,” She insisted, her tone still mechanical.

“You sound like you’re reading a script,” John replied in surprise.

“Well, that’s probably because I am.”

“From whom?”

Sarah hesitated, and then lifted her eyes to his for the first time that day.

“Do you know an auburn haired, middle-aged man-“

“-With a peculiar attachment to a brolly?”

Sarah nodded and John groaned and rubbed his hand across his face, “He didn’t threaten you, did he?”

“Yes, but he did so _very_ elegantly,” Sarah replied sardonically.

John snickered first. Sarah smiled. Then they both laughed a bit and relaxed quite a good deal.

“He’s quite a piece of work, isn’t he?” Sarah asked.

“Yes, but not too loud, he’s probably bloody recording this.”

“He can’t do that! This is a clinic! Patient confidentiality!”

“Trust me, it doesn’t matter.”

“You’re joking?” Sarah asked with her face still amused.

John pressed his lips together, gave her a pitying look, and shook his head. Then John received a text.

** Kindly keep my name and affiliation with Sherlock to yourself, Dr. Watson – M **

“And that would be Lord Brolly Poppins texting me to keep my mouth shut.”

Sarah’s face paled and she looked around the room in alarm.

“Relax, he just doesn’t want you to know his real name or anything personal.”

“You know him _personally_?” She squeaked in alarm.

“Unfortunately,” John sighed.

“Who are you and why are you working at a piss poor clinic like this one?” She asked in shock.

“Nobody. I’m… nobody,” John flushed.

“A nobody who knows two somebody’s who could apparently kill and get away with it.”

“Apparently, yes. Oh, and I’ve a mate on the force.”

“I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am for making you uncomfortable,” Sarah stated with no small trace of fear in her voice.

“It’s… fine. Gods, I wasn’t trying to _scare you_. I…” John took a breath and planted a smile on his face again, “I’d like us to be friends.”

Sarah nodded her head so vigorously she looked a bit like a bobble-head doll, especially since her eyebrows had virtually disappeared into her hair line by that point.

“What did he say to you, if I may ask?” John wondered.

“Something along the lines of interfering with the breeding of dragons being a crime punishable by execution if proven guilty, but that I’d never get to see a trial if he had anything to say about it.”

“Bloody My… friend. My _bloody_ friends. They’re so… incorrigible,” John muttered, “Look, you’ll be fine. Sherlock’s probably forgotten it by now…”

< _No I haven’t_. >

“You haven’t what?” Sarah asked, blinking in confusion.

“Did I say that? He just… Sorry, sometimes he talks through me. Apparently he hasn’t forgotten it, but he will… No, actually, I won’t. Damn it Sherlock!”

Sarah was looking at him in alarm, so he did the merciful thing and gave up trying to reassure her. He gave her a tight-lipped smile, went back to his lunch, and hurried out so she could eat hers with less fear and apprehension to cause indigestion.

Then his mind replayed the conversation and focused on one point alone.

_ Breeding of dragons? _

XXXXXXXXXXX

After Sherlock’s ease solving the Study in Scarlet, and the notable fact that he had single handedly caught the man as well, John thought Sherlock’s fame would take off, as it well deserved. Not so. Sherlock worked a series of small cases that the police sent his way when they couldn’t be bothered and collected equally small fees for them. It was a start, and with John’s income from the hospital they managed to stay afloat.

John thought that meant that he would start spending time at Scotland Yard hounding them for cases or riding on his shoulder to the clinic as he’d once done. Neither occurred. Instead Sherlock fell into some awful sort of malaise and spent days stretched out on the couch staring up at the ceiling. It was so contrary to his lover’s usual behavior that he began subtly searching the house – and Sherlock’s arms – for signs of drug use. He was one part horrified and one part relieved when he found the small decorative box full of antique needles and two small vials of drugs. A quick study found them to be cocaine and morphine.

_ Well, this explains your lethargy. _ John thought at him while staring angrily at the morphine.

< _Relax. I only use a seven percent solution. It’s not as though I’m shooting it up straight. >_

_ I can’t believe you’d risk your brilliant mind for a rush! _

_ <Morphine is hardly a rush, John, and I told you – my mind rots without something to do. This keeps me from going utterly mad and taking you with me.> _

_ I’d rather the latter! _

John took the box and meant to be rid of it but found himself putting it back where he’d found it. What followed was literally an entire day where John called out of work and repeatedly tried to dispose of the box of illegal substances. After a few hours he was screaming mad, shouting abuse at Sherlock down the hall. After a few more he was in tears, pleading with him to _just let him help_. After a few more hours he had entered a state of sheer stubbornness and simply repeatedly attempted to throw it straight out their bedroom window onto the street below.

Recognizing his attempts wouldn’t stop – John hadn’t even eaten all day – Sherlock finally stomped into the room and scowled at him angrily.

“Give that here!”

“No!” John made another attempt to toss it but found himself obediently handing it to Sherlock instead.

“Honestly!” Sherlock snapped, turning and placing it back under the floorboard John had pried it out of, “I give you credit for noticing the loose floorboard, but this? You’re embarrassing yourself, John.”

“You just wait and see what I _wouldn’t_ do for you Sherlock!” John snapped back, “Give that back!”

John dove for it and found himself in the kitchen staring into the fridge. When he looked up Sherlock was in the doorway panting and sweating as though he’d ran a mile.

“Damn it, stop _fighting_ me!” Sherlock growled.

_ I’m wearing him down! _

“No!” John snapped, shoved Sherlock out of the way and bolted for the floor again.

“Damn it, John, those needles are antiques worth hundreds! I’m not going to let you toss them out the window.”

“Better reason to do so! You’ll get tetanus!” John snarled, kneeling on the floor and grabbing a screwdriver despite some horrid part of his mind screaming at him not to. He’d never actually _felt_ the pull Sherlock had on him before. It was uncomfortable and alien.

“I’ll do no such thing!” Sherlock screamed back, staggering into the room and looking as wild as John felt.

What followed was an actual physical struggle. John pried up the boards while Sherlock tugged angrily at his arms and was repeatedly tossed aside. While John struggled with the box at the window again Sherlock physically jumped on his back and they ended up wrestling on the floor. Sherlock attempted to turn their tussle sexual, moaning and arching against him suggestively, but John was not to be dissuaded despite the growing bulge in his trousers.

Finally he managed to pin the amateur detective to the floor and use a nearby belt to secure his arms. He tugged it tight and held it while stuffing fallen objects back into the box and then dragging them and his snarling lover back to the window. He tossed the box out the window with its lid sprung and glass shattered on the sidewalk below. As if the gods above agreed with him a large delivery truck drove over the corpse of Sherlock’s drug habit. John cheered and Sherlock groaned in misery.

“Huzzah and good riddance!”

“Huzzah? Who says huzzah? Pity’s sake, John…”

“Shut up!” John snarled, feeling unaccountably powerful to have the dragon on his knees and bound on the floor, “If you want a distraction, by gods, I’ll give it to you!”

John dragged the dragon-man across the room and pushed him up on the bed. Sherlock’s eyes widened in fear but John didn’t try to gentle his actions. He tugged his own clothes down and flipped Sherlock onto his belly on the bed, manipulating his legs into position. Sherlock growled and pleaded but to no avail as John sat on his hips while lubricating his own aching member.

“John, I’m not ready. You promised. You promised we didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to! John!!”

John spread those beautiful orbs while holding the belt in his teeth to keep the weakly squirming Sherlock held in place. He ran a lubricated finger down his cleft and teased his pucker until Sherlock ceased pleading and whimpered a bit. Then John slid his member vertically between those two plush domes, pressing them together to give him a bit of friction. John moaned at the slide and Sherlock gasped, realizing that John had no intention of piercing him. John released the belt and loosened it so Sherlock could remove his arms if need be. The man pulled both to his sides, the belt dangling off one, and grasped the duvet as John continued to thrust betwixt his cheeks, his speed increasing as he chased his release. Sherlock’s hand moved between his legs but John snarled and pushed it away.

“Not like that,” John growled, making Sherlock moan in apprehension.

John continued to drive himself forward, his hips canting eagerly as pleasure coiled in his abdomen. He intended to finish quickly and then pleasure Sherlock until the man was boneless.

“Is this what you want?” John panted, “All my attention on you? Just you wait until I get my hands on that long prick of yours.”

“John!” Sherlock gasped, “I’m _twitching_.”

“Mnm, I know, I can _feel_ you.”

John panted, focusing on the feel of that little muscle as his cock stroked the length of it. He really couldn’t feel it exactly, but he was aware of Sherlock clenching and unclenching rhythmically. Sherlock had begun to rock himself back towards John, flexing his hips like a belly dancer.

“I want to see you dance,” John moaned, eliciting a chuckle from the man beneath him.

The vibration felt wonderful but John didn’t want this to be a laughing matter so he focused on finishing as quickly as possible so he could pleasure Sherlock instead. Not that the man wasn’t enjoying himself. There were a fair few nerve endings John was frotting against and Sherlock evidently loved every minute. John’s body tensed and he gasped out his orgasm, watching the pearlescent arc spatter across Sherlock’s back before flipping him over.

Sherlock’s face was beautifully flushed, his eyes glazed and his full lips parted. John kissed him hungrily as he grabbed the lube and stroked Sherlock’s aching cock. Sherlock hissed at the chill of the lube but was soon moaning against his mouth enthusiastically.

“What do you want, my love?” John purred, “How can I please you?”

“ _Now_ you’re complacent,” Sherlock complained.

“I’m a doctor first and your sex slave second,” John chuckled.

“Mmm, filthy man,” Sherlock accused.

“Guilty as charged. Tell me what you want me to do. Should I jerk you off while you lie in a puddle of my come?” Sherlock groaned at that and squirmed a bit as though to spread it about on his body. “Or give you some of what I took a bit ago? Would you like that Sherlock?”

“Outercourse,” Sherlock muttered, then groaned as John rubbed his thumb over the man’s cockhead, still keeping his motions too slow to bring him off.

Deciding that was what Sherlock wanted based on his muttered correction, John straddled his thighs and leaned forward. He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s eager mouth and palmed his cock, pressing it between his (admittedly expanding) mounds. He began to make minute shifting motions, Sherlock’s well-lubed cock sliding easily between hand and arse. Sherlock gasped and wriggled a bit, his face flushed and his hips arching for more friction. John let him thrust a bit but then jumped in alarm when the angle pushed Sherlock’s cockhead sharply against his entrance.

For one moment John was envisioning himself being impaled on Sherlock’s long, slender cock and it had his cock twitching with enthusiasm, then Sherlock was arching his back and crying out, his hips making frantic, small thrusts as he came hard between John’s cheeks. John gasped as his entrance was pushed firmly against twice more, but Sherlock’s spongy cock-head gave before John’s pucker so his rosebud became saturated but remained virginal.

They both stared down at each other with their mouths open in awe.

“We almost…” Sherlock started, then swallowed hard.

“I think we’d better stretch me out a bit next time,” John worried, “That might have gone badly if we’d both followed our urges.”

Sherlock blushed, looked away, and nodded hesitantly.

John opened his mouth – probably to put his foot in it – but was interrupted by the sound of swearing and stomping from downstairs.

“Is that Mr. and Mrs. Hudson?”

Sherlock’s answer was to grab the nearest article of clothing and direct John to wipe him off. Once done, he bolted downstairs with John dragging clothes on and hurrying behind him. Mrs. Hudson was screaming at Mr. Hudson at the top of her lungs and he was shouting for her to shut up.

“You’re a murderer, Jack! A murderer! That little girl is dead because of you and I’m going to make sure everyone knows it!”

“Shut up you brazen hussy! I’ll teach you to speak out of turn! I am the man. Of. This. House!”

Each of the last four words was punctuated by a thump or a slap. John swore, wishing he’d grabbed his Sig, and Sherlock switched to dragon form and kicked the door in without bothering to knock first.

Then he collapsed.

John swore, recalling that he’d been pushing Sherlock hard all day, and vaulted the weakened wyrm. Inside he tackled Mr. Hudson to the ground and shouted at Mrs. Hudson until she stopped kicking him and fetched him something to tie the man with. By the time that was done Sherlock had regained himself enough to transfer back into a human and was sitting at the kitchen table looking at a box of photos.

“Lestrade is on his way,” Sherlock informed John.

“Thanks,” John panted.

“Mr. Hudson is a murderer.”

“I gathered.”

“There’s not enough here to prove it, though, especially since his crime was committed overseas.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” John panted.

“You get that blighter put away for life and I’ll comp your rent to pay you back for it,” Mrs. Hudson promised, shaking her finger at Sherlock as though he had been naughty.

When Lestrade arrived some time later he also looked at Sherlock as though he’d been naughty, but when John walked around to see what he’d been looking at he figured out why. The man had a smear of dried semen just under his hairline.

Sherlock glared at them while John and Lestrade snickered, but John thought he looked just a bit proud.

[CHAPTER 16-20](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/107811.html)


	4. vincentmeoblinn | Dragon Blood Ch 16-20

Chapter 16: Miss Mary Morstan

A/N: Please no freaking out about polygamy or het sex. Patience. There's a plot complication coming up that will settle this for you all.

****

_ po·lyg·a·my _

_ noun \\-mē\ _

_ Definition of POLYGAMY _

_ 1 _

_ : marriage in which a spouse of either sex may have more than one mate at the same time — compare  _ [ _ polyandry _ ](http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/polyandry) _ ,  _ [ _ polygyny _ ](http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/polygyny)

_ 2 _

_ : the state of being  _ [ _ polygamous _ ](http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/polygamous)

_ — po·lyg·a·mist noun  _

—   _po·lyg·a·mize intransitive verb_

__

The man walked towards the rear of the tourist group, looking around himself with a sharp look as though he knew what the corners held but was looking for something specific within them. He leaned heavily on a cane, but no one took pity on him. He looked too much like a man capable of a great deal of evil; his eyes were wild, his skin weathered, and his beard unkempt. He would have looked a better part on a pirate ship than in a tour through the  [ Agra Fort ](http://agrafort.gov.in/) in India.

Finally he must have seen what he was looking for, because he slipped easily away from the tour guide. Down several halls he turned, avoiding the populace whenever possible and intentionally looking as though on business when he could not, Jonathan Small eventually halted at a wall of bricks, several of which had clearly been repaired within the last few decades. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw they had not been more than surface caulked, which informed him that they had not been pulled out to be re-laid properly. Then he pulled out a small, concealed dagger from his boot and began to chip away at the wall. This wall was fortunate enough to be in the least populated area within the portion of the Fort still occupied by the Indian Army, but of course that was why he had chosen this spot. Hours he worked, silent as possible with the utmost patience. When finally the last brick was tugged out of place he reached into the darkened hollow and found… cobwebs so old that even the spiders had abandoned them.

Small barely contained his rage, though he wished fervently to scream his betrayal at the top of his lungs. Leaving the bricks where they lay he slipped back out of the architectural marvel via a rarely used exit. Only one man saw him and noted his presence, and he was dispatched quite quickly. Jonathan then re-attached his prosthetic leg, collected his cane that the man had knocked out of his grasp, and vanished for nine long years from all knowledge of men.

XXXXXXXXXXX

“Sherlock!” John called from the kitchen, “There’s a head in the fridge!”

“Just tea for me, thanks!”

John sighed, leaning his forehead against his arm for a moment, gave the occupant of the icebox a sympathetic look, and shut the door again in defeat. Lestrade called for tea as well and John prepared it with a grumble. He was just relieved they were all getting on, despite Lestrade’s continued pursuit of– and rejection by- Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock found the mans interest disgusting, John found it amusing, and Lestrade found a new love of poetry and waxed on about the man as though he were Adonis. Although, John had noted a twinkle in his eye that made him doubt the sincerity of his prose.

“So when is this client showing?” Lestrade complained as John returned with the tea.

“Three,” John supplied when Sherlock declined to answer or even look up.

Their naked companion was stretched out on the couch in abject misery. He’d gone through a nasty withdrawal, despite the fact he watered his drugs down, and was only just recovered from it. When the knock at precisely three came at the door John answered it and was instantly stopped in his tracks. The woman who stood there was blonde, delicately boned, and had the most expressive and intelligent eyes he’d seen aside from Sherlock’s. He stood gaping a moment, shocked that he was even able to be _interested_ in someone besides Sherlock.

“Mr. Holmes?” The woman asked with her cheeks flushed as she met John’s eyes.

“I… no, but do come in, please. Mr. Sherlock Holmes is just there; please excuse his lack of clothes. He’s a dragon, you see, and I’m his thrall,” John let the pride show in his voice as he gestured to Sherlock.

< _I am not your PET, John. >_

_ I know that. _

_ <Do you?> _

_ I rather thought it was the other way around? _

_ <Just so long as we’re clear.> _

“Miss Mary Morstan?” Sherlock asked, hoping to his feet as though he hadn’t been lazing about for weeks on end.

“Yes, sir, I was sent here by Mrs. Cecil Forrester, my employer, who you solved a rather complicated domestic issue for some years ago.”

“Mrs. Forrester… Ah, yes, she was at Uni with me, she and her newly wed husband sought me out, but as I recall the matter was rather simple,” Sherlock replied with a raised eyebrow.

“Perhaps to one such as you,” Mary flattered, though there was no sign on her face of deceit.

“You have your own troubles, I presume?” John asked, gesturing to the chair reserved for clients.

Mary settled into it and John drank in her appearance. She was plainly dressed, though clearly educated, in a uniform that made him think of a teacher in primary school. Despite her lackluster garb, she was both elegant and demure. Her words as she spoke contained no impoverished accent, though she seemed to be of the working class.

“My story is a strange one, Mr. Holmes. My father was a military man and my mother had died when I was a toddler. I was sent to a boarding school here in London while he was overseas in India where I had been born; He and my mother had spent most of their lives there. My father married late in life, but was a strong and healthy man. After I left boarding school I became a governess for Mrs. Forrester. Nine years ago he was given leave to return but vanished before we could meet! No word was ever found.”

Miss Morstan went on to explain that a year later she received a message on a social website which she frequented that asked for her address. Being young and having been told she would benefit from it, she gave out her address. It was only after that Mrs. Forrester told her how foolish that was. The event proved fortuitous, however, when she began to receive a pearl every year on the same date each time.

However, that morning was the date she always received a pearl, and instead she received a letter:

“’Be at the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre to-night at seven o’clock. If you are distrustful bring two friends. You are a wronged woman and shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all will be in vain. Your unknown friend’,” John read aloud, “What do you make of that, Sherlock?”

“Hmmm, an interesting adventure, no doubt. We’ll go with you, of course, and you’ll dine with us before hand. Lestrade will have to miss this one, especially since it’s out of his jurisdiction.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

“No one could fault me,” Small told his companion, “After all, it was join them or they would kill me on the spot. All the more misery me for stumbling down that alley that night, but they made me swear an oath and I never broke it. I wasn’t even the one to stab the museum curator, no, not me. That was Dost… Dost… Dost Akbar… you wouldn’t understand, you know.”

Small’s companion nodded affably.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Small sighed, “The love of another man is a beautiful thing. Dost was a giant of a man. Strong and powerful. Older than I, which is what cost him in the penal colony on the Island. I’ll never forget the day I buried the man I loved… Still… Ah, never mind. What would you know of love? You’re related to your wife, you sick bastard! Anyway. They wouldn’t fault me. We four grew close after the curator’s stalker turned us in… a stalker! Aren’t they usually mad and killing people?”

Small laughed at the irony, but soon sobered again, picking at his food and tossing it to the side.

“Soon we’ll have the treasure back again and I’ll be able to give my fellows peace. The Sign of the Four will be avenged.”

So saying Small signed his name to the paper, along with his three deceased comrades, and added four crosses connected at the arms to the paper. He then set it up to be mailed out to Major John Sholto of London. He’d found the man at last! Revenge was far more important to Small in his declining years than the fortune was, but he was eager to have both.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Mary, John, Sherlock, and Thadeus Sholto were sitting in a rather expensive hotel discussing a lost treasure, of all things! The Great Agro Treasure, which had been hidden from Mary’s father for four years before he had gone to attempt to claim it- and vanished.

“My brother,” Thadeus Sholto explained, “Is as greedy a man as my late father was. It was after receiving this note that he fell ill, and died before telling us where the treasure he’d appropriated without including your father was hidden!”

Sherlock looked over the note and compared the signature at the bottom to the odd map that Mary had found amongst her father’s things after his disappearance.

“The same symbol, and a name: The Sign of the Four. Four men, apparently: Jonathan Small, Abdullah Khan, Mahomet Singh, and Dost Akbar. Take a look at this, John. You can tell a great deal about a person from their signature. The first on Mary’s chart is young, but this man is aged many years.”

“What does it mean, Sherlock?”

“I don’t know yet, but it appears to be more important than I originally thought. I would think it was a map to this treasure Thadeus mentioned, but this is no house in Upper Norwood, this is a palace in India. So, the treasure was buried more than once.”

“Indeed,” Thadeus nodded, “In fact, the reason I called Miss Morstan here was because it was her father who was supposed to dig it up the first time! My greedy father kept it from him, and when he came to claim it four years my father… well, he claims that yours had a heart attack, fell, and struck his head upon the treasure chest itself. His servant, long since dead, helped him hide the body upon finding them. Even the servant thought it murder, so my father claimed he was afraid to properly inform the police without fear of ending up in prison.”

Mary, who had been holding up rather well throughout this discussion, paled a good deal. John hurried to fetch her a glass of water from the wet bar, throwing an angry look at Thadeus for upsetting her with his careless words.

“I’m so sorry, Mary,” John comforted the best he could, “This whole time you’ve been hoping he was alive and now…”

“No,” Mary sighed, taking a sip of the water and schooling her expression into one of strength, “No, I knew he was gone, but to hear how it happened...”

Mary closed her eyes a moment, let out another breath, and then refocused rather well.

“I’m sorry, Thadeus,” Mary nodded, “Please continue.”

Thadeus went on to explain that he and his brother searched the estate in Norwood for eight years for the treasure, and recovered it just the night before. He and his brother had then had an argument over including Mary in on the recovered funds. Bartholomew, Thadeus’ brother, insisted that she had no claim to it, while Thadeus pointed out that they already had wealth and Mary was an impoverished governess and orphan thanks to their father’s actions. Finally Thadeus had stormed out and taken a room in a hotel to wait for Mary to respond to his summons.

“We’ll go and confront him together and see if he can’t be swayed by your… feminine charms,” Thadeus smirked.

Mary looked insulted and John concurred, favoring him with another nasty look. Sherlock, however, jumped to his feet, rubbing his hands together, and agreed they should hurry along. So they stuffed themselves into a cab and headed over to Thadeus’ childhood home of Pondicherry Lodge.

They found Pondicherry Lodge in an uproar. Sherlock managed to pick the many locks to Bart’s rooms and found the man murdered, his face twisted into a mad smile as he sat at his desk in his rooms. A giant hole broken through the ceiling above him showed where the treasure had been lowered from it’s secret place above.

“Doctor! Doctor!” Thadeus declared, grabbing at John’s arm, “I fear my heart is failing me! Save me!”

John had already realized the man was a terrible hypochondriac, but he gripped his wrist quickly and glanced at his eyes just to make sure. It was an awful shock, and even hypochondriacs could die of it.

“You’re fine, you twit,” John snapped irritably, earning a horrified look from Bart’s housekeeper. John flushed immediately. The man had just lost his brother and he’d called him a twit!

“The police will think _I’m_ the culprit! And to make matters worse, the treasure is _gone_!” Bart wailed.

The police did blame Thadeus, and marched himself and two servants out of the house without further ado. Sherlock couldn’t get them to see reason, but he had managed to search the house before they arrived.

“Pity this isn’t Lestrade’s beat,” Sherlock sighed as he climbed down the side of the building, “That Jones fellow is a braggard and a fool.”

“Among other things, yes. I can’t believe he arrested _Thadeus_. Even I can tell he hasn’t the wit for this.”

“We’ll get him freed,” Sherlock nodded.

“So, what did you find?” John asked eagerly.

Sherlock chuckled, “Eager to find this treasure and impress Miss Morstan, are you?”

John blushed and looked away, “Not really. Once she’s rich she’ll want nothing to do with me.”

“She’ll have little choice,” Sherlock snorted, “I’ve made her a thrall. She’ll be craving me, and you can reel her in.”

“You’re joking!” John asked in excitement, “And you’ll let me?”

“Of course. You won’t stop going on about how attractive she is…”

John grabbed Sherlock and kissed him soundly, pulling him tight to his body. They snogged for a few moments, desire curling beneath their skin. When they separated Sherlock’s eyes were heavy, his lips swollen, and his breath fast.

“I’m going to see Mary home then come back for you,” John whispered while stroking along Sherlock’s arm, “When you’re done here we’ll get a cab home and you’ll to tell me _everything_ you’ve figured out, you vain thing. Then I’m going to make love to you for hours.”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock agreed, “One difference. I need you to pick up a friend of Lestrade’s.”

“Sure, who?”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

John sat down beside Mary in the cab. She was sitting quite straight and steady despite having seen a rather grotesque body today and having spent over an hour comforting the housekeeper and then another being questioned by the police.

“You’ve done remarkably well Miss…” John started, but was interrupted when Mary burst into tears.

“Oh, it was just _awful!_ ” Mary sobbed into a tissue.

John started out holding her hand and telling her how well she’d done, but when she pressed towards him he didn’t hesitate to pull her close and hold her tightly. He ended up with a female body pressed hip to chest for the first time in nearly four years! John’s blood rushed south and he was grateful that they were sitting in a cab rather than standing or Mary would have been fully aware of how affected he was by her presence. He took a deep breath and willed himself not to try something stupid… like dry humping her leg in the back of the cab.

Mary calmed herself – John wasn’t much help – before they reached Mrs. Forrester’s, at which point she hurried into the study with John trailing behind her in a daze. She and Mrs. Forrester sobbed in each other’s arms as she related the tale and John weakly excused himself.

Once back outside in the fresh air he took several healthy gulps of it and wondered where his skills with the fairer sex had gone. Probably down the throat of a rather sensual male dragon, John decided. Thinking of Sherlock’s full lips and talented tongue were _not_ helping with his ‘little problem’ so John decided to walk a block or two, catch a different cab, pick up this Toby fellow for Sherlock, and head back to the Lodge that way.

His plan went well until he found out whom Toby was… or _what_ Toby was.

“That’s a dog,” John stated dumbly as the man stood in the doorway with a long-furred and not-much enthused ugly mutt.

“Observant, are’n yeh?” The owner sneered, “You said Toby an this is the on’y Toby in the ‘ouse!”

“Brilliant. Thanks. I’ll just… take his leash then…”

It took three cabbies to find one who would let him take the dog in the car since the first two ‘didn’t like the look of him’. John didn’t like the look of him, either, but he kept his complaint to himself. Sherlock must have had a reason for asking a dog to a crime scene, and it would probably be a rather ingenious one.

XXXXXXXXXX

“A trap door in the _roof_!” John breathed, “You are _amazing_!”

“What bothers me is that they cut us off,” Sherlock replied, “Ah, Toby! Excellent! One of the villains stepped right in some tar on the roof, tar that had been saturated with Eucolyptus leaves from the nearby trees. That’s a scent trail unlike any I’ve ever come across.”

“There’s no other way?”

“Oh, there are many ways to track the culprits down, but that is certainly the most direct. Did you see those prints I pointed out to you before you took Mary home?”

“In the tar? Yes, a child’s footprints, my gods, do you think they saw the murder? Poor thing,” John worried.

Sherlock chuckled and shook his head.

“What?” John questioned.

“Oh, never mind. You’ll find out in time,” Sherlock teased.

Sherlock took an instant liking to Toby, ruffling his fur and letting the creature sniff him rudely. John was utterly revolted, despite having liked dogs. Sherlock let the creature sniff the handkerchief he’d pressed into the tar and the creature was off like a… well like a duck, really. Toby waddled down the road with his nose to the ground at a fast enough pace to make a decent walk. Walk they did: almost ten miles, ending in a crossroads a block from the Thames when Toby began to whine and travel in circles. John was holding up traffic despite shouting and honking from cars. An officer was headed their way and John was schooling himself to give an excuse when Toby gave a yip and took off to the left. They followed him another block and ended at a pile of barrels of… tar.

John winced and glanced at Sherlock in concern, but he laughed rather than having one of his typical fits.

“Poor Toby,” Sherlock cooed, ruffling the dog’s fur, “too much tar in the area, eh?”

“What now, Sher?” John asked, “You mentioned other options?”

“No, Toby will get us there; we just need to go back to where he was confused and have him take us down the other trail.”

They backtracked and John made excuses to the same officer before finally heading off to the right instead. Three blocks later and they reached a boat dock, but there they were stalled once more. Sherlock studied the area a moment and then headed for a boat rental. There his mutism suddenly kicked in again and John was left to stumble through a questioning. Sherlock guided him to pretend they wished to rent a very fast motorboat and after a few minutes they found out the husband had taken one out and not returned last night.

_ <Pretend to have seen the boat. Describe it.> _

_ I don’t know what it looked like. _

_ <Doesn’t matter. Pull it out your arse.> _

“I think I saw that one last time I was here,” John tried, “Was it the black one with the blue stripes?”

“No, no,” The wife insisted, “Black with a red stripe and a white top.”

“That’s the one!”

< _The Euclid? >_

“The _Euclid_ , was it?”

“Close, but it’s the _Aurora_ ,” She corrected with a laugh.

“That’s the one exactly! When will it be back?”

“I don’t rightly know,” The woman frowned, “He doesn’t usually go out in the middle of the night. I can take your number and give you a ring?”

John gave her his mobile number and Sherlock hurried away ahead of him.

“What happened?” John asked worriedly.

Sherlock opened his mouth and no sound came out. He frowned angrily and blushed.

< _I don’t know. I think it has to do with Mary. I felt odd while you were off with her. For some reason I can’t read her mind as I can yours. Something is… wrong! >_

“It’s fine, love, it’s all fine,” John soothed, though inwardly he was hurt by this development, “Nothing has to happen with her. She can be like Lestrade. Let’s go home and think of ways to track the motorboat, yeah? Besides, I believe I owe you some love making.”

Sherlock nodded, lips pressed tightly together, but he obviously wasn’t convinced by John’s empty words. Once they were home, however, Sherlock turned surly and paced irritably. He pinned a piece of orange paper in one of their windows and ignored John’s advances.

“I’m going to send out some friends of mine to look for the motorboat and the other three members of the four.”

“Other three? You think the child is a part of it?”

“Hm? Oh, no. I meant the other three besides Jonathan Small and our diminutive murderer. Small will be easy to locate, he’s also with the… murderer.”

“So there are _six?”_

“No. There’s Jonathan Small, who we know from Thadeus’ story is white, male, and has a prosthetic leg and-”

“But… Thadeus has never seen him. You just described the fellow his father mistakenly took a shot at a few years before he died.”

“Yes, and by that we know that Small has the same description as that unfortunate fellow. We also know that Small is the one that description belongs to because he was the only Caucasian who signed the letter and map. The other three are Indian by name at least, and we’ll have more difficulty hunting them down, which is why I’ll be employing the Baker Street Irregulars.”

“The who now?”

“The Baker Street Irregulars. Lestrade suggested the name when he pointed out that it would be _irregular_ to see street children coming and going at Baker Street.”

“More than a bit irregular, Sherlock,” John worried.

“No worries, I’ve told Wiggins to make sure he’s the only one who reports in.”

“Why… why do we need street children again?” John asked, picturing the court date.

“No one pays them any mind. They can go virtually anywhere unquestioned, either by virtue of stature or social status, and no one remembers they saw them. I throw them a coin or two and they’re content to scour the city for me, find our men and boat, and report back,” Sherlock explained.

John struggled for a moment, wondered if Sherlock was right, and then let it go.

“So what about that dart? The little one that killed Bart Sholto?”

“Another mystery I’ll keep to myself for now. It will be more fun to see the look on your face later,” Sherlock teased him.

Wiggins reported in a few moments later, a scrappy young lad with a dirty face but bright intelligent eyes. John stuffed his pockets full of biscuits and forced a glass of milk on him despite Sherlock’s scowling. Sherlock gave Wiggins the descriptions he had and sent him off to look for three Indian men in the company of a peg-legged Caucasian and the motorboat from the wharf.

Sherlock and John retired to their bedroom, as John had promised, to celebrate Sherlock’s new case and the end to his lethargy. Sherlock was practically thrumming with excitement and John was devouring it like an addict. They stripped each other’s clothes off in short order and stumbled into the shower while kissing and groping each other. A quick scrub down to wash the sweet and grime of the day away, and Sherlock was panting and wriggling against John’s body. It never failed to excite him when the dragon was so utterly wanton with him. Sherlock’s normally calculating eyes would glaze over and John would feel a surge of power as they tussled, rutted, and otherwise ravaged each other.

They hadn’t been intimate in a while and John had a long night planned for them. He started by dropping to his knees and sucking him off fast and hard. Sherlock’s eyes were wide with shock; he was thinking that John usually preferred to draw things out, but today he had something in mind. While Sherlock was moaning in bliss John gently pushed him until he lay down on the bed.

John slipped some lubricant onto his fingers and stroked Sherlock’s furled pucker until the man relaxed, which was no hardship with John sucking him off. Sherlock had felt one finger before and John was determined to get him up to two or even three today. He underestimated how aroused the man was, however, and was soon swallowing down his release.

Sherlock sighed happily, not the sort to be bothered if he finished before his lover. John chuckled and kept on prodding the man’s entrance, wondering if plan B was an option. Sherlock smiled down at him lazily and John decided to make it a go. He was achingly hard, but he was certain he could hold himself off long enough. For now he avoided Sherlock’s prostate as he worked on getting two fingers into the dragons relaxed body.

Sherlock, apparently, decided he wasn’t comfortable and took that moment to roll over without warning. John’s fingers slipped out and he paused a moment to figure out if the dragon was fleeing him or just being a ponce. The latter, apparently, as he snuggled into the bed and ignored John even when he parted the man’s cheeks and pressed his fingers back inside. He did give a startled hiss when John went up to three.

“John… I think… I think that’s full,” Sherlock stated, his voice unusually high.

John swallowed down a laugh and pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade, “Just a bit more, love.”

“Can’t you just… wank? Or… I’ll suck you off,” Sherlock decided, and tried to turn back over.

John took that moment to dive straight for his prostate and Sherlock’s entire body stiffened and stayed frozen in place. Sherlock was on hands and knees, one leg slightly forward, as he’d intended to move. He didn’t alter that pose even as John stroked his prostate more insistently.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, “I’m getting hard again.”

“Good,” John replied softly reaching a hand between his thighs to encourage that development.

“Haven’t…” Sherlock swallowed and recovered his voice a bit, “Haven’t you told me to be more considerate? I should… I should do this to you instead.”

“Is that what you want?” John asked softly, grasping his cock a bit firmer and drawing a moan from the man, “Do you want me to stop?”

“N-no,” Then suddenly he changed his mind and replied with a panicked tone, “Yes. Stop.”

John withdrew both hands instantly and Sherlock lowered himself onto his stomach and then curled up on his side.

_ Oh, shit. Not good.  _

“Sher? Love?” John wiped his hands off and leaned forward to pet the man’s hair comfortingly.

“I’m so hard. _Again_.”

“I can suck you off again…”

“I want… No… I…”

“Tell me what you want,” John urged, “Whatever it is, it’s fine. I want it, too.”

“I want what you’re picturing. I want…” Sherlock closed his eyes and swallowed hard, “I want inside you, but you don’t want that.”

“I don’t _not_ want it; I’m just nervous, same as you are. You want me, take me, love, I’m yours to do whatever you want to,” John soothed, stroking his hips and urging him to roll onto his back.

Sherlock lay there, curious despite himself, and watched as John lubed up his fingers again. John nervously straddled Sherlock and slipped a finger slowly inside himself. He had tried this in the shower once or twice, but this was a different matter. He was nervous, but excited as well. He wanted to feel Sherlock come inside him, to watch the pleasure on the man’s face as he came apart in John’s arms.

John stretched himself slowly, taking the time to show Sherlock that it didn’t have to be a frightening thing. When asked to, he turned around so Sherlock could curiously watch and even slipped a finger into him as well.

“Mph, that’s nice,” John panted as Sherlock curiously prodded him, “You, ah! You got my prostate.”

“I was _trying_ to,” Sherlock snipped, then shifted about and knelt behind John.

“I’d really rather face you,” John pleaded, and Sherlock lay back down again.

John straddled him, stroking him to make sure he was fully hard and well lubed, and slid slowly down the man’s shaft. It was such an _odd_ feeling. He’d thought the head would be the worst, and it was in the sense that it was the widest part and burned a bit, but John reached a point where his body simply didn’t want to take more in and he had to still. He knelt there, panting and trying to decide if he could go deeper or if he should settle for shallow sex. Sherlock’s eyes were clenched shut, his breathing erratic, clearly lost in the pleasure he was feeling. That settled it for John. He pulled off a bit and slid the rest of the way down in one go, grunting as his body clenched without his permission in an attempt to stop the intrusion.

“Oh, gods!” Sherlock gasped, clawing at John’s hips in apparent alarm.

His eyes had flown open and he was staring at John with a look of wonder on his face. John was gasping and smiled as he felt his body adjusting to the unusual sensation of being _filled_.

“Well, worse than I thought it would be but getting better, yeah?” John panted, as he felt the urge to move filling him.

“John. Please. I. Fuck,” Sherlock stated firmly.

John slipped up and then slid back down and they both let out shocked groans. Sherlock’s grasp on his hip was becoming painful, so John tugged his hands up and held them, getting Sherlock to brace them up so John could clasp them and use them to raise and lower himself with more ease.

“Reverse pushups,” Sherlock gasped, and John smiled. He was getting used to Sherlock saying random things during sex.

John leaned back a bit more and sure enough he managed to graze his own prostate, but was so shocked he jumped and Sherlock slid out of him. He looked down at his lover guiltily, but Sherlock was grinning back and John relaxed and shifted down again. This time Sherlock participated, grasping his own cock and holding it up so John could slide back down. They moved easier after that, flirting with their eyes and whispering filthy things to each other as they moved.

“Can you tell what it feels like for me to have you inside my body?” John panted.

“Full and satisfying,” Sherlock growled back, his eyes flashing with lust.

Sherlock adjusted his hips, spreading and bending his knees, and John gasped as his prostate was assaulted full on.

“Oh, gods! Yes! Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! I’m close, Sherlock I’m… oh gods… oh!”

John groaned, threw his head back and closed his eyes in bliss as his throbbing member erupted, completely untouched, painting Sherlock’s torso in white stripes. He was gasping and he could feel himself clenching Sherlock tightly. His rhythm faltered, his legs burned, but before he could recover himself or ask to switch positions, Sherlock rolled them over and took to thrusting desperately into John’s boneless body. John moaned and let his arms fall back on either side of his head, completely content to lay back and let Sherlock use him for his pleasure. He winced when the dragon hit his over stimulated prostate, but Sherlock caught on and avoided it afterwards.

“Oh, gods, John, I’m so close but I can’t…”

“Kiss me,” John urged, and the man lifted his head and pressed their lips together viciously.

John took advantage of the shift in position to slide a hand down and stroke Sherlock’s nipples into buds. He then flicked them gently and the man gasped into his mouth. A few circles with the pad of his thumbs and Sherlock was panting and growling eagerly. John turned his head to the side and kissed and nipped Sherlock’s neck.

“You are so fucking sexy with your cock buried inside me, taking me over and again. You _own_ me, Sherlock Holmes, and I love to give myself to you,” John whispered while continuing to stimulate his lover’s body.

The multitude of sensations at once threw him over the edge and Sherlock came with a strangled cry, his body arching and his hands tearing at the bedding on either side of John’s head.

“Fuck!” He gasped, and then collapsed on top of John breathlessly.

“Yeah,” John agreed.

 

Chapter 17: Secrets and Disguises

****

“The penal colony was hell. I was blessed they shut it down three years after I ended up in that shite hole, but the camp that followed was only a bit better. We were still prisoners, after all, but the camp was more of a work-release thing. Well… it was supposed to be. Agreement was you log trees and work off your crime and eventually they’ll let you off that god-forsaken island, but they never let us off. No, not a single one of us; my three compatriots worked themselves to death. I was stubborn. You don’t loose a leg to a crocodile in basic training; survive that hell, only to give up because you’re forced to work wood for near sixty years. They didn’t treat us bad, but they never let up about the Agro treasure. Fools! If they’d only known we’d hidden it _inside_ the very building we stole it from!”

Small laughed to himself, cutting off another piece of meat from the shank he was devouring and popping it in his mouth. His companion watched him in silence, grinning occasionally, and eating his own portion slowly.

“I was a fool to trust Sholto and Morstan,” Small stated, his voice cracking with grief, “But there I was without a friend left in the world and they showed me such kindness… I don’t blame Morstan so much; he was tricked, too, but Sholto! That bastard! I suffered for that treasure! I suffered for sixty-three long years! Most of it alone and friendless! My beloved dead and buried!”

Small dissolved into weeping and his companion patted his arm consolingly.

“Thank you, Tonga. You’re a good friend for a savage thing,” Small replied, sniffling and getting himself under control, “I’m sorry for putting you through this humiliation. I know you’re a proper warrior and not some _circus freak_.”

Tonga grinned demonically and Small laughed.

“It was a good day,” Small continued with a grin, “When that earthquake hit. Your people got away mostly unscathed, Morstan got shipped home with a minor injury, and _me!_ I escaped that shit hole camp!”

Small put down his plate and stood up to do a shuffling dance, laughing before tossing himself back down.

“They still think I’m dead!” He laughingly continued, “I left my old dog tags hanging from a post by the beech after the tsunami passed. You and your boat came in handy for our escape- me from prison and you from you missus! Ha ha!”

Tonga joined in the laughter, slapping his short leg and shaking his shaggy head.

“Come on, Tonga, let’s turn in. We’ve got some work to do tomorrow.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

Sadly, the next several days were spent with Sherlock pacing angrily around the flat. Mrs. Hudson even checked up on them in true concern because she said she’d heard him pacing all night long.

“I know, I couldn’t get him to come to bed. I’m sorry he kept you up.”

“Oh, no, it was my hip kept me up. Is he all right? He seems almost… feverish!”

John glanced at his lover and nodded at the truth in that statement. Sherlock was flushed and sweating, his brow furrowed in concentration as he passed from one part of the living room to another over and again. John had given up trying to get him to eat, but had succeeded in getting some fluids into him.

“Your ex-husband hasn’t contacted you?” John asked, changing the subject.

“Not yet, and good riddance!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, “I’ll never stop being grateful for you two coming up with the proof he was guilty! I can sleep easy at night now… when my hip isn’t acting up.”

“I can prescribe you something for that if you aren’t already seeing someone,” John mentioned.

“Oh, I’ve got a doctor, it’s just some nights the medicine does nothing at all!”

“I know the feeling,” John replied, rubbing at his recent bullet wound.

Mrs. Hudson gave him a sympathetic smile, through Sherlcok another worried look, and then whispered that she’d bake something nice and leave the door open hoping the smell would draw him down. John smiled and nodded at the idea, but doubted it would work. Moments after Mrs. Hudson left Sherlock erupted.

“No good! Bah! It’s all no good! What’s the use of all this data if I have no way to extrapolate their location!! How could my Irregulars have failed me?!”

“I wish you wouldn’t call them that, it sounds like a bad case of the stomach flu.”

“There’s no use for it. I’ll have to find the boat myself.”

“Could they have banked it? Or gone all the way out to sea? Or changed it’s colouring?”

“Doubtful, but I can’t dismiss any options…” Sherlock paused and looked John over appraisingly, his eyes roving over his body almost sensually. John smiled welcomly but a moment later Sherlock looked away.

“Mary was just thinking of you.”

“Oh. I. She was. Well…” John replied, flushed and flustered.

“I’m confused by her John, is it because she’s female? I want you to be happy, and I want you to have a female to breed with, but I get this crawling feeling when my mind touches hers and then my mind just… _runs from her_. Why?”

“I don’t know. You’ve specified you’re only attracted to men; perhaps it is because she’s a woman. Have you had other female thralls?”

“One, but she died,” Sherlock replied, and went back to pacing.

“Oh. Sorry. Is… do you… should I… damn, this is difficult. Do you think its jealousy?” John asked nervously, “Do you not want me with someone else?”

“You’re mad for her, I want you with her if it makes you happy.”

“You didn’t answer my first question.”

“ _No_ , I’m not jealous! It’s preposterous! You belong to me, she belongs to me, that should _work!_ The idea of you and Lestrade together doesn’t distress me.”

“Really? It rather does me,” Lestrade stated, stomping into the room. John laughed and Lestrade grinned at him.

Sherlock snorted and stormed off to the bedroom. When he emerged he was dressed… dressed?

_ Is it sick that seeing you in clothing makes me hot and bothered? _

_ <No.> _

“Why are you dressed like a doc worker?” Lestrade asked, giving Sherlock a curious look.

“I’ve got to take care of some things. Disguises make life easier for me. For whatever reason when I wear one I have no issues with my mutism; likewise when I’m in ‘detective’ mode.”

“Detective mode!” Lestrade burst out laughing, but stopped when John snapped at him.

“It also,” Sherlock stated with a firm look, “makes it easier for other people to talk to me.”

“Where’s my disguise?” John asked, standing up and heading for his coat.

“You’re staying behind, there will be no danger to me and quite a bit of difficulty training you to act.”

John frowned, but didn’t argue and Sherlock left with a quick kiss to his cheek. John spent the next day at the clinic worrying over Sherlock. He checked in several times with John, and he could feel the moment Sherlock cheered up because he began to flirt.

< _Stopped to eat. I know you like it when I eat. I think I’d like eating more if I did it off your body. >_

_ That’s… fuck, Sherlock, I’m with a patient! _

_ <Did you drop anything? Tell me you popped a tent!> _

_ Popped a… you spend too much time around Lestrade. _

_ <Would you like to eat food off of me?> _

_ Yes. Gods, yes. What the hell brought this on? _

_ <A rather lovely zucchini dish, actually. They hollowed out the shell and served zucchini soup in it.> _

_ I hope it was washed properly.  _

_ <I think it was. The waitress is flirting with me. Should I bring her home? Maybe you’d like a fling. I’d like to watch you with her.> _

_ Consider my tent pitched. _

_ <Yes, then?> _

_ I don’t know; I’m not sure I’m a one-off sort of guy. If you want, I guess. _

_ <You’re thinking of Mary again.> _

_ Well… yeah… _

_ <On the tip of my tongue. What is wrong with her? Why can’t I figure it out?> _

_ Jealous? _

_ <No. Not jealous. Still picturing you with the waitress. She has very small breasts. Do you mind small breasts? I think I might prefer them.> _

_ Small are lovely.  _

_ <John… I just figured out why I like her.> _

_ Why? _

_ <She is a he… or a ze… no she prefers she… this is fascinating! The waitress is transgender, pre-op. She’s offered to show me her bits. I’m going into the bathroom with her.> _

_ S-seriously?! _

_ <Wow.> _

_ Need more detail. _

_ <Perfectly shaven. Small but beautifully shaped. Very pale. Her arsehole is bleached, John. Bleached. Her breasts are smaller than I thought, still developing, but I rather like her nipples. Large and very… suckable…> _

_ Her arsehole is… So… You’re bringing her home?  _

_ <Afraid not. The Work has to come first, John, but I have her number.> _

_ Oh, you are a cruel man. _

_ <How’s your patient?> _

_ I pretended to feel ill and fled. I’m wanking in the gentlemens. Thank you for reducing me to a sixteen-year-old boy.  _

< _Once this case is over I’m going to do unspeakable things to you. Possibly with Jolene, but preferably alone until I’ve memorized every inch of you. >_

_ Oh gods, I’m coming. _

_ <Taste it. Think about the taste. I want to hear it.> _

_ Mmm’s salty and bitter. I shouldn’t like this.  _

_ <Yes, you should.> _

XXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock returned in a disguise that would have fooled John had he not been connected to him mentally. He looked like an old man, bent double with rheumatism, with the calloused thumbs of a retired fisherman. Lestrade and John gaped at him.

“You picked up a tranny like _that_ and I can’t even get a bloody date from your brother? What the hell is wrong with your family?”

“I changed for lunch,” Sherlock scoffed, stripping the entire disguise off in a sweeping motion.

Sherlock threw himself down on the couch despite it being occupied by John and Lestrade. Lestrade snarled and struggled out from under Sherlock’s lanky legs. John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s plastered down curls and fluffed them back up.

“You’re not getting any,” Sherlock smirked.

“I’m going to start raping you,” John growled.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Sherlock snickered, pulling his hands into his thought pose, “I’d boil you.”

“I crave you all day and all night,” John informed him firmly.

“Well,” Lestrade snorted, “That’s my cue to go to my room and wank to photos of your brother.”

“That’s disgusting,” Sherlock and John both groused while the DI cackled his way upstairs.

“Jones is on his way over, by the way,” Sherlock muttered about two seconds before the bell was pulled.

“Tell me he’s not a thrall,” John groaned.

“Gods, no, give me so credit. I think I have decent taste,” Sherlock replied with a look of disgust.

“Well, I guess that’s a kind of compliment then. Thanks,” John winked before wriggling out from beneath Sherlock and unlocked the door to welcome the DI.

“This better be good Holmes,” Jones snarled.

“A good deal better than you’ve got, considering you had to let all your culprits go,” John stated for Sherlock, who had dropped mute again.

“Talking through your thralls again, Freak,” Jones growled.

“I could stop bothering at all, you know,” John informed him coldly, “You are more than welcome to solve the case yourself.”

Jones struggled with his pride now, he stood there with a frustrated look on his face, and then he sighed and nodded firmly.

“Apologies. I’m at the end of my ropes. I know Sholto murdered his brother, but I have no way to prove it.”

“Well, your problem is simple,” John smirked, “You’re completely wrong. Once we’re past that, we can find the actual killers.”

Jones puffed up a moment, and then sagged and dropped into a chair: “My director’s breathing down my fucking neck. I went to the press too soon and now I’m out of perps. Give me what you got and I’m your man.”

“Fantastic. I’m going to need your fastest motorboat,” John deadpanned.

Here are some of my notes and some interesting links you lot might enjoy.

The Agra Treasure from Fort Agra

[ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Agra_fort ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Agra_fort)

On 26 December 2004, the coast of the Andaman Islands was devastated by a 10-metre (33 ft) high tsunami following the  [ 2004 Indian Ocean earthquake ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2004_Indian_Ocean_earthquake) . On 30 March 2010, a magnitude 6.9 earthquake struck near the Andaman Islands.

Andaman forests contain 200 or more timber producing species of trees, out of which about 30 varieties are considered to be commercial. Major commercial timber species are Gurjan ( [ _ Dipterocarpus _ ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dipterocarpus) spp.) and  [ Padauk ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Padauk) ( [ _ Pterocarpus dalbergioides _ ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pterocarpus_dalbergioides) ). The following ornamental woods are noted for their pronounced grain formation:

The penal colony was eventually closed on 15 August 1947 when India gained independence. It has since served as a museum to the independence movement.

(J.Small at least 86?)

Tonga – Jarawa Tribe of  [ Andamanese ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andamanese_people) natives 

****

Chapter 18: Jonathan Small

****

_ Interspecies Reproduction with Dragons: _

_ Although the adaptation originally served in order for male dragons to impregnate other male dragons, since dragons often choose to utilize humans as a source of reproduction it has been found that the process works between the species as well. Female dragons impregnated by male humans carry their offspring as usual, delivering via live birth and only in their dragon form, but male dragons must reproduce in the way they would with another male dragon.  _

_ For a male human, female human, or a male dragon to bear dragon young, much the same process is used: during fertilization the male dragon’s sperm congeals when it fails to encounter female dragon hormones; this creates a small pouch within the abdomen of the receiving partner. In cases in which a womb is not available, the pouch will create itself off of the sigmoid colon, forming what can feel like a hernia as it pushes against the surrounding organs and muscle wall. Note, that it is not possible for dragon sperm to form a pouch in a stomach or throat (see: Nortons, Dragon Myths and Tall Tails). That pouch will absorb DNA from the surrounding tissue of the receiving partner and mix with the DNA of the dragon. The pouch forms an egg over a period of two to three days, which is then expelled- with the pouch- out whichever opening was used for impregnation. If the dragon is the receiving partner and the sire is the human, the dragons own body will absorb the male human’s sperm and the previous process is followed with an additional day added to the gestation period. Gestation must occur while the dragon is in their fully transformed state, though size of the dragon does not affect the size of the egg nor changing size damage it.  _

_ See also: Dragon Nesting and Hoards, Dragon Behavior during Gestation/Impregnation, Dragon Behavior during Nesting, and Dragon Mating. _

__

__

They lazily weaved their way around the basic area of the warehouse that Sherlock had discovered the _Aurora_ had been stashed in. To the outside observer they were merely patrolling normally.

_ <Minor repairs, the owner said, and laughed about how ridiculous they were. There’s nothing wrong with her. The criminals are waiting till the sensation dies down.> _

“What makes you think they’ll make a move tonight?” John asked, his arm slipping around his chilled companions waist. Sherlock was wearing a long coat and a blue scarf, but nothing underneath or on his feet. It was fairly warm out, but the breeze over the water chilled him. John wanted to pin him to the deck and ravage him.

< _They’re running out of time. I put an advertisement in the paper, listing it as from the wife of the ships owner. Now that he’s officially a missing person they have to make a move. >_

_ “ _ Do you think he’s alive?”

_ <Oh, yes, I imagine he’s alive and well and driving the vessel. Unless my information is quite wrong our man is nearly ninety years old and has a very poorly made prosthetic leg. He won’t be up for driving a craft of that caliber. Whether or not he’s innocent of crime is another matter. You have your pistol?> _

“For the third time, yes.”

< _Draw it and whatever you do keep it aimed at the littlest passenger. He is deadly, John. You see him raise his arm, you shoot him. >_

“Yes, Sherlock,” John replied, pulling his gun out and slipping the safety off.

“Is that…?” Jones started, but stopped at Sherlock’s scolding look, “Never mind. I didn’t see it.”

The doors opened and a boat came speeding out of the warehouse with alarming acceleration, nearly taking out two smaller craft on its way. They shot after it, Sherlock worrying vocally about their petrol levels.

“She’s faster than I thought she’d be,” Sherlock worried, “Or the captain is better.”

“It’s the captain,” John sighed, “We should have brought Lestrade. He’s fantastic with a boat.”

“Fuck,” Sherlock snapped, slamming his hand on the rail.

John watched as they slid between various river crafts, held the rail tightly and Sherlock tighter as the boat jumped waves made by the craft they chased. Eventually Sherlock abandoned standing and his clothes crumpled to the ground as he slithered around John’s body, clinging to him in smaller mimicry of the tattoo that graced his body and part of his neck and face. John gripped the rail with both hands as Sherlock’s claws dug into his thick jacket.

< _Your gun! Draw your gun! >_

_ You need to tell me what I’m facing! _

_ <The smaller one is from a tribe of warriors in the Andaman Islands. They are fierce, loyal, and very deadly. He will have a blow pipe with him, the thorn-darts of which are what killed Bart Sholto. There is NO CURE for their toxin. You will die with a twisted smile on your face as your body seizes up in an unnatural rigor within seconds of your death.> _

_ Fucking hell. _

_ <Gun! Now! We’re getting closer!> _

John struggled to draw his gun again, keeping it trained on the deck of the ship ahead of him. He could see several people, but none of them were dark skinned and none below the four feet specified by Sherlock when he’d first found the tiny footprints in Sholto’s attic. Where were the three Indian men? The Islander?

The captain of the vessel never turned to look at them, but John watched as another man- old, bearded, and nearly skeletal- struggled to face them from the back of the boat, waving his fist in defiance before struggling back around to hover over the edge near the front. He was clearly having difficulty moving across the swaying deck, more than was necessary even for such rough waters.

_ Sea sick? _

_ <Not sure. He does look busy.> _

“We’re getting low on petrol!” Jones shouted back, his man up front never taking his eyes off the speeding boat ahead of them.

“We have to catch them!” John shouted back, “They’ll have the treasure on the boat! Those jewels and pearls are national treasures!”

_ They should be in a museum, _ John’s mind supplied, and Sherlock chuckled as John shamelessly imagined himself as Indiana Jones.

< _Hmmm, another pleasure to explore with you in bed. I wonder where one gets a fedora and whip in London? >_

_ Oh, fuck, not now. What the hell is with you lately? You’re so off and on and off and on and… _

_ <Stop picturing us fucking you’re making me hard.> _

_ How does that work in dragon form? _

_ <I’ll show you later.> _

John had a moment of absolute horror and revulsion… followed by giddy curiosity. Sherlock laughed in his head and John gave himself a shake and re-focused on the boat ahead of them. Someone had just popped up from seemingly nowhere on the deck. He was a small Island man, between three and four feet tall, with a disfigured face and barely any clothing on. His hair was all in wild braids and he screamed at them like a creature possessed. His hand raised a short red stick to his lips and John fired his gun. The small man toppled backwards and his diminutive body slid about the deck as the boat continued to zig and zag, painting a trail of blood behind him.

The captain of the boat must have been more distracted than was immediately obvious, however, because he made a foolish mistake in navigating the crowded waterways and had to jerk the craft sharply to one side to avoid a collision. The result, to the cheers of the Marine Policing Unit’s occupants, was that the _Aurora_ ran herself aground. They quickly stalled the engines and drifted closer to the shore, careful not to run aground themselves. The captain had been tossed onto the sand and lay unmoving, but the man who had waved his fist at them was conscious and hurrying about.

Jonathan Small, which was who the lumbering man on the ship turned out to be, struggled over the edge and tried to make a run for it. He hit the ground hard, but landed on a protruding stone. John gasped in horror as the man’s leg splintered- white bone protruding from his trouser leg- but when Sherlock grew larger and carried John over by lifting him like a child, the man turned out to be unharmed. He sprawled on the ground, his lame leg trapped in the pebbly shore where his prosthetic had fractured and become a bizarre sort of flagpole upon which he was waving.

Sherlock transformed into his human self and strolled up to the swearing man, chuckling as he approached.

“Jonathan Small, I presume?”

“Yes, damn you, and who are you?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Then I’ll be adding you to the list of men who have wronged me and mine! What did you have to go and shoot Tonga for?”

“He would have killed my thrall,” Sherlock replied, “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind, before they take you away. I’m not technically with the police, so you can speak freely to me. I just want some small matters cleared up.”

“Seriously, Sherlock?” John laughed.

“There are some gaps in the story, John. I know you stole the treasure in 1944, I found record of your arrest- turned in by the curator’s jealous ex-lover- and I am aware the penal colony shut down in 1947…”

John headed over to the captain, Smith, and was examining him. His shoulder looked at least dislocated, and he was bleeding profusely from a wound on his head. His ear and part of his face had been shredded when he’d slid across the ground. 

“We need to get Small into the boat,” Jones chuckled, giving Sherlock a fond smile as an ambulance sang out in the distance, “I’m doing you a favor by not taking him the fast way by car so you have your chance to question him.”

_ Please don’t make Jones a thrall! _

< _I’m not! You know, some people simply naturally like me. >_

_ Oh yeah? Name one. _

_ <Shut up.> _ Sherlock ordered without vehemence.

Small was loaded into a craft via a life raft; John and Sherlock followed after and listened in rapt attention to his life story. An hour later they wandered the small deck, hand in hand and musing over the end of their case.

_ He’ll be better off in prison, _ John informed Sherlock, _He’ll get a proper prosthetic leg- not some rotted out wooden one- and proper medical care. It’s practically a retirement plan._

_ <Well, if I ever tire of the idea of keeping bees in my graying years I’ll just rob a bank.> _

_ That’s not funny. _

_ <Who’s joking? Use a gun and it gets your sentence doubled!> _

_ Bloody hell. _

“Fascinating life, this man has led,” Sherlock remarked as they reviewed his written confession, “Losing his leg, being discharged from service to his country, squandering his youth on the streets in India, running with a gang, sentenced to life in a prison camp, fifty-seven years working off his sentence in that lumber yard under government supervision. Then Morstan and Sholto show up in 2000, two UK Navy men, one with a vacation home in the area and one on shore leave, who get themselves in trouble with the Indian government and end up in a work release program in the same lumber yard. They scam him, meaning to take the treasure for themselves, but Sholto gets released first and runs with it. Morstan goes home injured after the same 2004 earthquake and tsunami that freed Small of his imprisonment and- as far as we are aware- dies in front of the elder Sholto, who himself dies after receiving a threatening letter from Small after living in fear of him for four years.”

“Then Small returns to extract his revenge and finds himself facing the children of the men he swore revenge on. At least he wasn’t the one to kill Bart Sholto.”

“No,” Sherlock sighed, “Tonga thought he was doing right. He was a warrior after all, proud and noble. He only knew that Bart was an enemy of his beloved friend and healer; killing him meant protecting the man who saved his life during the tsunami. He probably felt he had to do so to repay his debt. It’s a pity we couldn’t have taken him alive, such a rare and proud people should be preserved. I would have liked to have him taken back to the island once more. Still, it can’t be helped. He was a threat to everyone with those deadly thorns.”

“Well, we have the treasure now,” John stated, looking down at the heavy box on the deck.

“Yes, and it is rightfully Thadeus Sholto’s,” Sherlock replied, “Though first the police will be taking custody of it and then I imagine the Indian government will want to buy it from him. He has agreed to split it completely with Mary and has charged me with returning it to him so it can be divided up. However… I think you should take it to Mary first and I’ve arranged it with Jones so you can show it to her. Women, I understand it, are impressed with gems and such.”

John blushed, “You’re sure?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, “But she is my thrall and she’s been calling to me for some time now. It’s been cruel of me to keep her at a distance. You want her, you’ll have her.”

“I want to win her fair and square, Sherlock, I don’t want you influencing her,” John warned.

Sherlock nodded and smiled warmly, “You’ve my word, John. I won’t influence her. Woo her or fail on your own, but I’m sure you’ll succeed.”

“Thank you,” John replied, pressing a gentle kiss to his dragon lover’s cheek, “You’ve no idea what this means to me. I’ve missed a woman’s touch and voice. I love you _desperately_ , but I was straight until you mucked about in my head and there’s a part of me that will always miss the softness and smell of a lady.”

“I suppose transsexuals won’t do?” Sherlock asked with a sad smile.

John laughed and cupped Sherlock’s pecks, “Probably not, but I won’t protest if _you_ start growing something soft for me.”

Sherlock made a face, “I’ve already changed into a dragon and nearly lost my voice forever for it, do you really think my mental disposition could hold up to a sex change?”

“No, and I was joking anyw- hey!” John was nearly bowled over as Sherlock suddenly grabbed him and clung to him tightly, shaking from head to toe, “What is it? Sherlock? What happened?”

Sherlock turned John slightly and pointed to the wooden piping along the side of the police boat. John followed his eyes and saw something black sticking out of it.

< _Don’t touch it!_ > Sherlock cautioned, his mental voice terrified.

“What is it, Sherlock?”

< _Tonga’s thorn dart. You shot too late. He fired it off. He missed, thank gods, but he fired it off and I never even noticed! You could have died! >_

John rubbed Sherlock’s back soothingly as he stared in horror at the tiny bit of death stuck fast in the side of the boat. They’d reached the Yards dock and a panda wagon was waiting for Small. Sherlock transformed into a three-foot dragon and wrapped himself tightly around John’s torso and shoulders. John stroked his head, which rested on his shoulders, as he walked off the boat with the small, heavy chest in his hands. Jones was to escort him to Mrs. Forrester’s where the lock would be picked- the keys were tossed into the Thames by Small- and opened in front of Mary. After that it would go into evidence until after Small’s trial and then to Sholto and Mary to decide it’s final fate.

Sherlock was calm again by the time they reached Mrs. Cecil Forrester’s lovely town home. The small estate of which Mary was governess was warm and inviting, and they all three were led into the library where Mrs. Forrester and Mary waited with baited breath. Sherlock had picked the lock on the way over.

“We haven’t opened it yet,” John beamed, aiming to impress the soon-to-be-wealthy woman. He still doubted that she would want anything to do with him once she was rich, but he still wanted at least to see her beautiful smile, “You’ll be the first to set eyes on this treasure in years!”

John tugged at the lid, but it held fast, a bit more prying and he managed to tug it loose. A loud creak sounded as he opened the iron-lined strongbox to find…

“It’s empty!” Mrs. Forrester exclaimed in surprise.

“Thank gods!” John breathed in relief, “Now there’s nothing to stand between us!”

Mary looked up at him, her gorgeous eyes wide and a bit wet. John crossed the room to her and caught up both her hands.

“I couldn’t say anything when I thought you’d be rich; you’d have just thought I was after the treasure, but I’m not. I don’t care about money. I love you. I love your strength and your poise and your brilliant mind and your exquisite beauty. Marry me, Mary Morstan, and I’ll treat you like the most lustrous of pearls for all of your life. I’m not rich, but you’ll never want for affection.”

To John’s sorrow, Mary blushed, pulled her hands free, and looked hopefully towards Sherlock: “I can’t, John. I’m sorry. Sherlock’s made me his thrall, I’m to be his now.”

“That’s just it; Sherlock chose you for me. Not that you have to!” John added hastily, “It’s your choice.”

“For… you?” Mary asked, a strange look crossing her face as she looked back and forth between them both.

“Yes. We’re together, he and I, and it’s a bit odd, but you’ll get used to it. You sort of have to, actually, he changes you slowly over time.”

“He’s with _you_?” Mary asked, her voice squeaking a bit.

“Well… yes… you wouldn’t have to see it if it bothers you. Sherlock and I can keep that part private, same between you and I.”

< _Not a chance in hell. If you’re fucking someone, I’m watching. >_

_ Sherlock! We’ll talk about this later. _

_ <I’ve got that weird feeling from her again…> _

“Oh, no! I’d want to be with _both_ of you!” Mary cooed, pressing against John and holding a hand out for Sherlock to join them.

“Oh, well, ah, I’m not sure that’s possible. Sherlock isn’t attracted to women at all,” John stammered, wrapping his arms around her comfortingly.

“Not in the least,” Sherlock replied with a look of disgust.

Mary pushed out of John’s arms, her face twisted in rage.

“You’re _joking_! All this time?! There’s no chance?!”

“Mary,” John coaxed, confused by her sudden change in demeanor, “You can still be with me, and Sherlock will be a part of it just… not sexually. I know it sounds limiting but…”

_ <John, I’m certain of it now. She’s been hiding part of herself from me! Something isn’t right! It feels dirty!> _

_ Sherlock, she’s a woman. Try not to let your heterophobia get in the way of… _

“SON OF A BITCH!” Mary shrieked, stomping her foot angrily, “Do you have _any_ idea how hard I worked? How difficult it was to find Small? To locate a dragon inexperienced enough with telepathy to trick?”

“Trick?” John echoed, a feeling of dread welling up inside him.

Mary blanched and Sherlock stepped forward, his face enraged. He grabbed Mary’s arm and jerked her towards himself. His free hand he gripped her jaw with and stared deeply into her eyes.

“Sherlock!” John called out, but found himself unable to move forward as pain suddenly lanced through his head.

John slumped down to the floor, and with a sharp cry Mary joined him there. When he hazarded to rise again her eyes were empty of life, her body a shell of the human being she once was. Standing over her shaking in rage was Sherlock’s dragon form- all 12 feet of him- knocking over books and dislodging pictures from the walls. Mrs. Forrester fled the room screaming like a banshee. Sherlock roared in apparent rage and his claw came down on John as though to step on and crush him. John cried out and rolled, putting his arms up, but there was no way to escape the giant wyrm in the confines of the now very crowded library. Sherlock pinned him down as though with a cage of flesh and the world around him suddenly jerked and twisted.

When John was able to move again he was someplace dark, cold, and damp. He could feel the dragon hovering over his body, could hear his angry snarls, could vaguely see his eyes glowing in the darkness above him; but he couldn’t hear the _Sherlock_. No matter how much he cried out to him, verbally or mentally, Sherlock only growled and hissed like a giant angry cat.

John rolled onto his stomach, intending on getting away from Sherlock, as he suddenly felt afraid of him for the first time since they’d met. His hands met cold circles on the floor and he slipped as they slid beneath him, sharp stones and bits of metal poked and prodded him. Sherlock gripped John’s arm with one massive claw and dragged him bodily up what felt like a hill of coins. At the top John was thrown down in a groove almost like a nest, there he cowered amidst the coins, grateful the sharp odds and ends weren’t in this part, and shivered in the cold… cave?

_ Oh, my gods. Coins? Bits of metal? Stones? Dark and isolated? This is Sherlock’s hoard! I’m in his nest! _

Just because I wanted to look it up and thought you might to, here is a  [ Police motorboat on the Thames ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MFBWbpkZ9Ow)

****

Chapter 19 **:  
**

** Warning: **

PWP WARNING  
BESTIALITY/ANTHROMORPHIC WARNING  
DON’T LIKE, GO TO NEXT CHAPTER

****

This chapter is entirely skippable; there will be little plot, and what there is will be re-capped in the next chapter sans the kink. (BTW, I find it hilarious that my computer tried to correct _skip_ pable to _ship_ pable. LOL. My  [ Mac ](http://wallzoa.com/fun-wallpaper/funny-wallpaper-for-mac.html) ships  [ dragon!lock ](http://amphany.deviantart.com/art/Dragonlock-330377678) harder than you do!)

There are TWO, count it, TWO dragon sex scenes below. The first is what I originally wrote and the second is when I was like ‘let’s take this shit up a notch’.  (No, they don't have sex twice, I couldn't decide what kind of PENIS I wanted Sherlock to have.) They both start out the same, so just keep reading… you’ll see the difference soon enough.

****

_ Dragon Mating _

_ Dragons mate for two other reasons besides reproduction; they can have recreational sex in their human forms, and they can have what is known as ‘hoard claiming’. Hoard claiming occurs when a dragon feels their hoard, nest, eggs, or mate has been threatened in some way. Since mother dragons are more ferocious and their abilities heightened, breeding a male or female dragon inside of a nest is a way to protect a hoard, as well as providing the dragon with heirs should it die defending its wealth.  _

_ During non-recreational sex, a dragon is reduced to a feral state, their mind retreating and animalistic urges coming to the front. While it has been said that dragons are tender lovers, there is no substantial proof to back this myth up. Should a dragon breed a human partner during, that human will most likely not be harmed so long as they were an existing thrall. Dragons raping humans in a hoard claiming frenzy has occurred, but it is usually partially a defense mechanism which occurs when a human stumbles across or otherwise raids their caves. Non-thrall humans rarely survive the claiming process, and the egg will never form.  _

_ See Also: Dragon Biology, Dragon Reproduction, Interspecies Dragon Reproduction, Dragon Nesting and Hoards, Dragon Behavior during Gestation/Impregnation, and Dragon Behavior during Nesting. _

****

** Writh **

John curled up, trembling in terror. He heard a sudden intake of breath and held his own as he waited for the flesh curling pain that would accompany Sherlock’s deluge of boiling water. It never came. Instead Sherlock shifted away from him and apparently breathed _into_ the pile of metal John was ensconced in. The metal beneath him warmed to an uncomfortable heat and he hissed and pulled his hands away, grateful for his thick jumper. He soon regretted it as his body broke into a drenching sweat to accommodate for the stifling heat rising off of the coins.

Sherlock had returned, and was once more crowding John down onto his side on the coins. John rolled onto his back and pushed up against Sherlock’s torso, shouting at him once again.

“Don’t bloody _sit_ on me! What the fuck is wrong with you?! It’s me! John! Sherlock! Snap out of it! Sherlock!”

Sherlock paused in his shifting about, his body covering John’s as though to protect him, but John had never been more terrified in his life. Then Sherlock began to croon softly, making deep purring and keening noises that vibrated his entire torso. John was instantly calmed, his body going limp beneath Sherlock’s as that soothing feeling he got when Sherlock spoke in his mind swept through him. John sighed in relief. This was still _his_ Sherlock. The thrall hadn’t somehow been broken. John had no idea what was going on, but Sherlock wasn’t going to kill him.

Then, quite suddenly, John knew _exactly_ what was going on, because Sherlock lifted a claw and shredded his jumper from top to bottom in one quick motion. John yelped and then found a way to literally hold _perfectly_ _still_ while Sherlock repeated the action with his trousers, taking his pants out with the same motion. John was left in socks and shoes, which the dragon apparently had no concern for as he crouched down and rubbed a slick member as thick as John’s arm against his thigh.

“Oh gods, no! Snap out of it, Sherlock! You’ll tear me apart with that thing!”

John tried to scramble away on the (thankfully no longer scorching hot) coins, but they slipped and slid and he ended up captured in one gigantic claw and pinned down. Sherlock’s ‘hand’ was braced against his shoulder blades, and John was painfully aware that his bare arse was propped up in the air. John was then left to question his sanity, as the slick length that touched his hip this time was no thicker than his own cock was when erect… then suddenly thinned even further. Was the dragon no longer aroused?

Sherlock crooned lovingly and John had heard these noises from his dragon friend before, but they were usually accompanied by _words_ in his mind to translate the dragonese. Sherlock’s mind was locked away; all John sensed was a wild aching _need_ that was quickly pumping the blood south in John’s own body. John was too aroused to fight back, sobbing as desire robbed him of every sense except the need for completion. He lifted his hips and spread his legs, waiting to be bred. Sherlock rumbled his approval and John felt something wet and thin press against his twitching entrance.

Sherlock had stopped pinning him down and John’s body arched instinctively in anticipation of what his lust-dulled mind was screaming at him was about to happen. He gasped, winced, yelped, moaned, and ground back in turns as his hole was swiftly penetrated by something wet that started out small and slid inside with a bit of burn before starting to thicken. It wriggled and teased and pressed deep inside him, stroking his prostate at odd moments without apparent intent. John was aching and crying out, pressing back for more. The member inside of him twisted like a corkscrew, thoroughly buggering John over and again without need to even move either of their hips. Sometimes it was thin and long, sometimes thick and short. When it began to press deeper inside, John literally felt the moment it reached the curve in his bowels. John cried out, but was too far gone to form a cohesive sentence let alone demand Sherlock stop.

The prehensile cock inside of him arched and pressed deeper inside his body, following its natural curve without pain. John did, however, feel well and thoroughly penetrated in ways he had never imagined. His breathing had become shallow and he was seeing eruptions of light flash before his eyes in the darkness. John’s mind, buried beneath the lust and instinctive urges, told him he was about to pass out, but he was helpless and being thoroughly plundered by a twelve foot dragon.

He had never wanted to come so desperately in his entire life.

Sherlock’s unbelievable prick pulled back, thickened, stroked John’s prostate relentlessly, and then buried itself once more deep inside his body. Sherlock roared, his mighty voice echoing off the darkened walls. John screamed as he felt heat flood his body and his abdomen swelled, the stretch painful as his body protested the expansion. As John drew a gasping breath back in, his own body relented to the onslaught of pleasure and he came sobbing beneath the crooning dragon.

John sagged to one side, panting and sweating and suddenly grateful for the hot coins against his aching muscles. He rolled onto his back, groaning at the pressure against his bladder from the protrusion in his belly. The blackness was made complete when he slid helplessly into unconsciousness.

** Rod **

“Oh gods, no! Snap out of it, Sherlock! You’ll tear me apart with that thing!”

John tried to scramble away on the (thankfully no longer scorching hot) coins, but they slipped and slid and he ended up captured in one gigantic claw and pinned down. Sherlock’s ‘hand’ was braced against his shoulder blades, and John was painfully aware that his bare arse was propped up in the air. Thankfully, Sherlock took that moment to move his hips away from him, though John suspected it had more to do with proportions since a twelve foot dragon would have difficulty both pinning and mounting a man under six feet.

Sherlock slid down and John relaxed at the space put between him and that engorged… _thing_. It hadn’t felt like a proper dick. It had been narrow at the tip, had bumps or ridges along the shaft, and had swollen at the base until it was thick enough around to maim him.

John felt Sherlock’s muzzle press against him, nuzzling him affectionately as he crooned lovingly. John had heard these noises from his dragon friend before, but they were usually accompanied by _words_ in his mind to translate the dragonese. Sherlock’s mind was locked away; all he sensed was a wild aching _need_ that was quickly pumping the blood south in John’s own body. 

Sherlock stopped pinning him down and his snout slid lower and lower until John’s body arched instinctively in anticipation of what his lust-dulled mind was screaming at him was about to happen. Sherlock’s long forked tongue slid out and stroked along his cleft, slick in parts and rough in others. He gasped, winced, yelped, moaned, and ground back in turns as his hole was thoroughly saturated. When Sherlock’s tongue pressed inside him he nearly hyperventilated on sensory overload. It wriggled and teased and pressed deep inside him, stroking his prostate at odd moments without apparent intent. John was aching and crying out, pressing back for more, when Sherlock abruptly pulled away and mounted him again.

John was too aroused to fight back, sobbing as desire robbed him of all logic except the need for completion. He lifted his hips and spread his legs, waiting to be bred. Sherlock rumbled his approval and John felt something wet and spongy press against his entrance. John moaned and pushed back, but the dragon growled in frustration and pulled away. John wriggled on the heated pile of coins, calling out Sherlock’s name as his body thrummed for release. The large dragon circled him, making angry clicking and growling noises and shifting coins about, but when he mounted him again John could feel his body was smaller. This time when the slick shaft pressed against him John got what he was craving, but not in the way he’d expected.

Sherlock’s long, slick cock was still big enough to burn on entry, despite the slick stretching he’d had from the dragon’s tongue. It started with shallow thrusts, leaving John frustrated and gripping at a two fistfuls of coins. As it pushed in further it got thicker and John began to pull away, but the ridged shaft inside him was made to go in easy… and stay there. John gasped as he felt himself stretched wider and wider with each wet thrust. Tears were running down his cheeks and he lowered his forehead to the hot coins and braced himself for the worst.

Sherlock stilled. John panted. It took him a moment to realize the dragon was completely inside of him. He felt the head of the dragon’s member begin to swell and Sherlock groan/growled above him, the sound throaty and invigorating as it resonated down his long body and through his cock into John’s trembling passage. John moaned and the ridges stroked his prostate firmly during the slide out. John had been so aroused by Sherlock’s untamed state that he had remained hard despite the ache in his body. Now he gasped and panted as Sherlock began to thrust in and out of his body. When the dragon pulled away John’s knees would lift off the bed of coins beneath him and he would slowly slide off the dragon’s cock, the smaller ridges each stroking his prostate in turn, until the now swollen head of the cock was all that remained inside. Then Sherlock would plunge back down and John would scream in a mixture of pleasure and pain.

On this went until John was desperate to come, but his body still refused to obey him; he couldn’t simply reach between his thighs and stroke himself to completion. John began to beg, loud and frantic, shouting for Sherlock to let him come. He had no idea if the dragon could even understand him any more, but he could feel a subtle shift in his movements. Sherlock sped up, John’s knees aching as they were repeatedly lifted, dropped, and pressed into the coins. John felt his bollocks draw up tight, then gasped as Sherlock seated himself fully and threw his head back, roaring out his climax. John joined him, screaming in a mixture of agony and unbridled pleasure as his own body released across the coins even as Sherlock’s seed stretched out his abdomen. His body ached as it protested the unnatural expansion, but John was helpless beneath his dragon. Finally, with a sigh of satisfaction, the dragon’s prick softened, the ridges retreated, and he slid free from John’s body.

John sagged to one side, panting and sweating and suddenly grateful for the hot coins against his aching muscles. He rolled onto his back, groaning at the pressure against his bladder from the protrusion in his belly. He was asleep before any conscious thought could reach him.

****

Chapter 20: Pregnant

****

John awoke with a groan and a cramping pain in his abdomen. He shifted on what was apparently a hard and scratchy surface before he gave up on movement and simply went limp and whimpered. For a horrible moment the heat, pain, dehydration, and darkness made him think he was back in Afghanistan, buried beneath a collapsed tent and surrounded by rotting corpses.

“Sherlock,” John sobbed, tears starting up.

“Hush, love, I’m here. I’ll take care of you,” Sherlock spoke gently, and John felt a cool hand on his fevered forehead.

“M’pain,” John choked.

“I know. I’m sorry. You’re going to hurt for a few days, and then it will all be over. I promise. In the meanwhile I’m going to take care of you, love.”

_ Love. Love. Sherlock was calling him his love. That wasn’t right. Sherlock couldn’t love; had told him so.  _

“Oh, gods, I’m dying, aren’t I?”

“No,” Sherlock laughed, “But you may want to kill me when you’re able to move again. I’m going to transform and lift you up. You need to be on something softer than a pile of gold coins.”

“Where the fuck did you get gold coins from?” John muttered, but Sherlock had transformed and scooped him up.

John was lowered back down on something soft and he sighed in relief. His tired body ached and he felt unaccountably full. His body took that moment to air out several fresh protests now that immediate pain had been eased.

“Sherlock, this is awkward, but I need to piss,” John groaned, “And I think the other, too. Oh, fuck, and I think I’m gonna puke.”

Sherlock took care of him, his dragon form lifting him effortlessly and with utmost gentleness. John found himself ankle deep in a flowing stream, gently supported by a tail wrapped around his torso beneath his armpits. He wanted to drop down and lay in the cold water, but Sherlock immediately told him he couldn’t.

_ <You must stay hot. I know the fever burns you and makes your mind foggy, but it is necessary. Trust me, love.> _

John groaned but followed Sherlock’s instructions. He let his bowels go and flushed in shame, but was soon past that worry as he doubled over to be violently sick. Sherlock washed him gently, spilling hot water down his body to cleanse him before carrying him back to the nest. John discovered why the coins were so hot beneath him then as Sherlock vanished a moment and then let out a shuddering breath. The dragon was heating the coins with steam! Sherlock left John a moment to replenish his fluids at the stream and then returned with what felt like a jewel encrusted goblet full of fresh, clean mountain water… which the bastard had heated before giving him. John swallowed it down gratefully anyway.

“What… what happened?”

“You don’t recall?” Sherlock asked.

“No, where are my clothes and why is it so dark? I figured out the hoard part, so you can skip that.”

Sherlock was silent a moment then sighed and carefully explained: “You’re lying on the remnants of your clothes and a few scraps of material I’ve collected for you. I’m suppressing and calming your mind, which is probably why you don’t recall what happened. You will eventually. I need you to stay completely calm at all times. Any wrong move could be disastrous. I will help you stand, walk, everything. Wake me up if I’m asleep, but I doubt I’ll sleep for the next few days. I mean this, John. You absolutely must be careful. I might be able to find you a torch amongst this mess if you like.”

“Sherlock, you’re scaring me,” John replied, though he really didn’t feel it; he felt numb and distant from his own mind.

“You’re egg heavy, John. I’ve laid an egg inside you and it’s still forming. Right now it’s like a water balloon and it could pop if you move around too much or even bear down. Once it hardens you’ll push it out safely, and I’m told it isn’t as bad as you might think. Then you can leave here if you need to, but I’ll be staying to care for our child until he or she is ready to hatch.”

“Oh,” John replied, his mind still a bit hazy from the fever and Sherlock’s influence, “So I should just rest, then?”

“Yes.”

John’s eyes slid shut and he slipped into a deep slumber, waking only to eat what tasted like boiled meat and vegetables. It was very bland, but he was hungry. Sherlock held and caressed him, massaging his aching body and pressing kisses to him constantly. John was ill again at one point, but Sherlock merely tucked him back down, heated his bed of coins again, and left to bring him back more food.

John had no sense of time, but he was aware of Sherlock leaving and returning. When the dragon left sometimes panic crept in and he would cry or start to think of harming the ‘egg’ growing inside of him. He would turn on the torch Sherlock had left him and look around at the treasures and wonder if he could escape the cave, but he couldn’t even see the walls from where he crouched in a nest of gold. Yet when Sherlock returned, so did peace and he would relax into his lover's touch without hesitation.

He slept almost constantly and when he was awake he was a bathed and fed like an infant. _An infant is what you’ll have soon_ , a part of John’s mind supplied, but when he touched his abdomen it all felt completely surreal.

Eventually John woke to find Sherlock gone and an odd scuffling sound around him. Confused he sat up and turned on his torch. Soon an answering light appeared and he looked up to see lights and shadows appearing from a gapping hole high up above him.

“There’s someone down there,” A voice called, “but it’s at least a forty foot drop.”

“Hello?” John called, his mind struggling out of the stupor Sherlock left him in.

< _Don’t let them touch you! Your gun is with your clothes. Use it! >_

John had spied it a bit ago and checked it over for something to do. He caste about for it now, annoyed that his frazzled mind made him forget where it was. Soon he had it in hand and watched as the light bobbed and slowly moved downward.

_ They’re repelling into the cave.  _

_ <Shoot them on sight. I’m coming back now.> _

John couldn’t see them enough to shoot them just yet, but three lights were coming closer, slipping on coins and gemstones as they sought out John’s light. It struck John then that he’d probably have better luck in the dark and he turned off his torch.

“John?” Mycroft’s voice called out, “John Watson? Is that you? It’s Mycroft. Do you know me?”

“You have to leave,” John replied back, “I’m ordered to kill anyone who tries to lay a hand on me.”

“You need medical attention, John. We know what happened with Mary.”

“Mary?” John’s mind floundered and somewhere deep inside he ached. The pain brought back a flood of memories and John lowered the weapon, if only because his hands were shaking too much to fire it.

“We can get you out of here before he returns,” Mycroft soothed, and John could see the light from his hat approaching closer, “We can take you someplace safe where he can’t hurt you again.”

“Sherlock would never hurt me,” John replied, lifting the weapon again.

Something wasn’t right. Mycroft wouldn’t say those things, and he certainly wasn’t going to repel into a darkened cave for _John_. For Sherlock, perhaps, but not for John.

_ Or for Sherlock’s egg! _

John fired, three shots in the darkness, and the sound of screams echoed in the cave. For a split second he was back in Afghanistan and his panic had him vaulting over the side of the nest edge, sliding out of his warm ledge of coins and down to the cave floor where the gems were sharp and the surrounding area cold. John’s mind came crashing back to reality and he froze in horror. He touched his abdomen where the lump beneath his skin was hard and painful. Sherlock’s child. His child. John was shaking in fear. He could feel the fever leaving him and it terrified him. He _had_ to keep warm. How long before his temperature dropped enough to harm the egg?

Sherlock’s angry roar filled the cavern, the scrape of scales and claws on stone grated on his ears, and then the loud thump as he simply dropped onto all fours rather than land gracefully. Sherlock growled and hissed, and John could hear as well as feel him moving up the mound of coins to seek John out.

“I’m here! I’m here, but I’m getting cold!” John called out.

Sherlock’s wings beat the air and he came down and scooped John up into a gentle embrace. John was deposited back on his warm haven, the coins quickly heated until John hissed in discomfort, but he bore it and laid out flat to absorb the heat better. Sherlock hovered over him, adding his own bodily warmth and John felt the fever returning with a hazy lull over his mind.

“I fell,” John slurred, “I fell and I’m scared for our child.”

Sherlock keened, his long head snaking around so he could nose gently at John’s abdomen. He turned him gently onto his side and sniffed deeply at his entrance, but seemed eased by whatever he found.

_ <I don’t smell death. You are far along; the young one may be safe. We will know when you lay it in a few hours time.> _

“That soon?” John asked. It all felt a daze. Most people had _months_ to prepare.

< _The egg won’t hatch for a while, but yes, that soon and you’ll be free to move about again. Sleep. You’ll want to be calm later._ >

“Did I kill your brother?”

Sherlock snorted, < _No. He was talking over a radio of sorts. >_

“Oh, good. Lestrade would be devastated.”

_ <Doubtlessly.> _

[CHAPTER 21-24](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/108195.html)


	5. vincentmeoblinn | DRAGON BLOOD 21-24

Chapter 21: Egg Laying

****

WARNING - Egg laying. 

John woke to a cramping feeling reminiscent of stomach flu and called for Sherlock’s help. The dragon, however, was crooning and nuzzling John rather than helping him and John soon found his muscles acting of their own accord. John groaned and felt the lump moving lower in his body. He laid his hand across his abdomen, amazed as he felt the egg shifting. There was a horrid tearing feeling and John felt warmth spill out of him and smelled the sharp copper tang of blood, but the sharp pain soon dulled to an ache as the egg slid lower in his body. When it reached the muscles John found he had to reach beneath himself and stretch them as he would in preparation for sex. He could feel the egg now, its shell hard and hot, and he used both hands to hold himself open for its passage.

John bore down let out several panting cries as the egg finally slid from his body. He could feel his entrance twitching and trying to close back up. More blood was spilling out of him and he groaned in pain. He’d lost more blood than he’d thought and was starting to panic. Sherlock leaned down, his tongue lathing across John’s entrance and slipping inside. He felt the pain ease and recalled a dragon’s natural healing ability. John lay back on the coins, content to let Sherlock care for him as the creature caressed his body; apparently bathing him at the same time he healed him. The entire process couldn’t have taken more than an hour and John was asleep again in minutes.

 

Chapter 22: All Things Treasured

****

When John woke up it was to find himself cast out of the nest. He was still comfortable, having been placed on his bundle of shredded clothes and sheets in a grove just below the nest, but he was decidedly kicked out. Sherlock was wrapped around it in dragon form, crooning and nuzzling the coins every once and a while. John tried to get close to see his egg, but slid down the slope again. He was sore but not in excruciating pain, though he could have used a pill or two.

“Hey! Don’t I get to enjoy the fruits of my labor?” John snipped.

He heard Sherlock mentally chuckle and felt something brush his ankle. It was Sherlock’s tail, which John gripped and used to climb up to the nest. Once he reached it he was alarmed at the heat coming off of it.

“Is this safe?”

< _My instincts say so, but many dragon eggs don’t survive because this wasn’t originally how we were supposed to reproduce; it’s an adaptation and our instincts for it are still quite new. >_

Sherlock sounded worried and that worried John, who leaned down and gently brushed coins off of their tiny prize. The egg was about the size of a duck egg, perhaps a bit larger but not as big as a goose egg. When he touched the shell it didn’t feel fragile like a hen egg did, it felt more like a rock, though the texture was smooth.

“Our child is in there,” John breathed.

< _Yes. >_

“Is there anything we should do? Get a dragonologist to look at him or something?”

< _Him? >_

“I dunno, better than ‘it’.”

Sherlock chuckled and gently covered the egg over with coins again, warning John to step back. Once John was clear Sherlock breathed steam across the coins to heat them again, tested the temperature with his nose, and repeated the action. John was sweating from the proximity alone.

_ <We can care for her together.> _

“Her?”

< _You say him, I’ll say her. One of us will be right. >_

John laughed a bit and then scrambled down the edge with the torch pointed in front of him. He made it to the stream and sorely missed Sherlock’s warm presence as he bathed sans hot dragon breath. Once he was feeling more human again he carefully crawled back up the pile, nicking himself on a few gems, and sprawled out in the pile. Sherlock was a bit far away for casual conversation so John decided to think at him.

_ Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to start a family? I’d have been ecstatic. _

_ <It wasn’t a conscious decision. I reacted to Mary’s betrayal.> _

_ I’m still more than a bit fuzzy on that, especially the part where you killed her. _

Sherlock sighed and shifted above him.

_ <You’re angry and hurt and sad. I didn’t want you to feel that way. I’m sorry you are hurt, but not for my actions. She was not who you thought she was. She tricked us both, and for that I am truly sorry.> _

_ That doesn’t change the fact that I love her, Sherlock. _

_ <I’m partly to blame for that. I saw how attracted to her you were and pushed it a bit. I wanted you to be happy and thought you would be if you had a woman in your life.> _

_ So my feelings for her aren’t real? _

_ <No.> _

John spent some time thinking on that and curled up tighter.

_ They feel real. They hurt. I hurt. I feel like my heart’s been ripped out of my chest. I keep playing her death over and over in my head and it kills me that you were the one who killed her. _

_ <She isn’t dead.> _

_ She…. What?  _ John sat up, hope blossoming in his chest again, but Sherlock made a strange, pained sound.

_ <John, she’s not alive, either. Mary’s brain has been destroyed. She’s on life support at St. Bart’s. It was the only way to break the thrall. Eventually, if I just left her be, she’d have killed herself anyway. Or she would have defied the attachment and become malicious. She was trying to get to my hoard the entire time, John. She never wanted you; she wanted to entice me into breeding her because she knew that dragons only breed on top of their hoards. She would have stolen all my treasure and my egg and held the last for ransom against Mycroft. She knows who he is, or at least has a good idea, and that he is desperate to keep our family going- especially from me in the hopes I’ll breed another dragon heir.> _

_ I don’t believe you. You jumped to conclusions, Sherlock; you couldn’t even properly read her mind! _

_ <John, don’t you remember what she said? She admitted to tricking us. She lured in Small. All of it was to get to a bigger treasure than her father had tried to get from Small; my hoard.> _

_ Damn you and your hoard!! _

_ <That’s why I brought you here, John. You don’t care. Not about treasure and not about deceit. You care about me. You do still care about me, don’t you?> _

John rubbed at his eyes, sniffling miserably. A part of him knew Sherlock was right, but another part was miserable and missing the perfect woman he had envisioned in Mary.

< _John? I love you. Do you still love me? >_

_ Yes…  _

“Yes,” John sobbed, because it needed to be said out loud.

After a time of silence between the two, John finally calmed himself down enough to ask a rather important question.

_ How long will he be in there?  _

_ <Several months. We’ll feel her moving when it’s time. You can leave if you like, but I have to stay. If you want to stay I can have Lestrade bring you a few things. Do you want me to relay what you need?> _

_ Yeah. A toothbrush and toothpaste. A couple bars of soap. Some clothes. I assume you’ll still be bringing food in? _

_ <I’ll leave to get it for short periods of time, yes.> _

_ Salt. Pepper. A bag of chocolates. _

_ <Anything else?> _

_ No. That will do. Where are you getting the food? _

_ <Local farmer. Mycroft is paying him off. I think that’s how he found my hoard.> _

_ He didn’t know where it was before? _

_ <No, you’re the only person who’s ever seen it.> _

_ I’m honored. _

_ <You’re my mate now. It’s as much yours as mine. You can have something, if you like, to symbolize that. Most dragons will court their mate by giving them a gift from their hoard. It’s the only time we willingly part with anything.> _

_ I don’t want anything, but thank you. _

_ <Please? I want you to have something. I feel… incomplete.> _

_ Okay. I’ll look around. _

John spent a few hours exploring the cave, but soon felt too tired to do much of else. He sat himself down on a pile of smooth stones that appeared to have been collected for no other reason than that they were smooth.

_ What are these? _

_ <Soapstones.> _

_ Why are they here? They aren’t precious or rare, and they probably don’t heat up well, either. _

_ <I like them.> _

_ Are they a part of your hoard? _

_ <Yes.> _

_ Do you have other things in here without monetary value? _

_ <Some odds and ends from my childhood, some scraps of cloth- which you’ve been bedding on- you, and our egg. Things that matter to me but aren’t valuable otherwise.> _

_ What were the cloths? _

_ <The sheets I was wrapped in the first time I transformed. They still have stains from my blood on them, despite having been washed several times.> _

_ The toys? Where are they? _

_ <Near the back. They were the first things I brought here.> _

_ Where did you get all the gold? _

_ <I stole it, of course. That’s what dragons do. I took some from various pawn shops, collectors, museums, and a chest of it from Buckingham Palace.> _

_ You’re joking! _

_ <The Queen sent me a letter afterwards. Apparently she was most impressed. I have it in the same chest in a plastic bag to keep it getting damp.> _

_ That’s brilliant! I have to read it.  _

_ <It’s well buried. I’ll dig it up for you once she hatches.> _

_ All right. _

John sat quietly for a few moments and then began sorting through the soapstone pile, running his hand over each and holding them up to the light of his torch. Eventually he found one that was roughly shaped like Sherlock’s head while he was in dragon form. He smiled and brought it to his lips to kiss it’s ‘snout’ gently.

_ Can I have this? _

_ <Yes, though I haven’t the foggiest idea why you’d want it.> _

_ For the same reason you collected it. I like it.  _

_ <Then it’s yours, with my love.> _

_ Your love. I never thought I’d have that. _

Sherlock didn’t reply. He was busy crooning to their egg again and shifting coins around. John wove his way back to his little demi-nest and curled up with his soapstone clutched tightly in one hand.

John didn’t recall his dream, though he did remember the sensations and would for years to come. What made this dream different than every other erotic dream was that he woke up to the feel of a hot channel clenched around his aching erection. John gasped, and gripped the hips of whoever was slowly riding him to mindlessly thrust up into that wet heat.

“Oh, Johhhnnn!” Sherlock groaned.

John moaned heatedly, trying to slow himself but unable to calm the throbbing desire that had swallowed him whole. He had no idea how much preparation Sherlock had given himself, if the man had adequate lubrication (it felt it) or if he had wanted John to participate or simply lie passively by and be taken. All he knew was he was finally, _finally_ inside Sherlock Holmes and it was everything he’d imagined it to be. Sherlock’s tight passage clenched on every plunge and tried to suck him back in whenever the man rose up on his slim legs.

John remembered to seek out Sherlock’s prostate and started rotating his hips until Sherlock let out a strangled cry. John gripped his cock and tossed him off as quickly as he could, keeping the angle the same and listening to the dragon-man gasp and grunt in pleasure. Sherlock’s muscles massaged John’s throbbing shaft as he painted John’s chest with his ejaculate. Sherlock sagged into his arms and lay there, panting and clutching at him as John frantically pushed up into him a few more times before grunting out his own release.

“Oh, wow,” John breathed, “That… that was brilliant. That was… oh, gods. Sherlock, what… what wonderful thought brought that on?”

“I wanted sex, you were erect and moaning, and you are likely still too sore from birthing our child.”

John was silent a moment and then burst out laughing.

“So all I had to do to get you to spread your pretty white arsecheeks was lay a fucking egg? Bloody hell!”

Sherlock chuckled against John’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to his neck, but soon pulled away.

“The baby?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, kissing him in the darkness, “She needs constant heat.”

John sighed as the dragon slipped away on four sure feet and the whisper of wings. He was content in ways that had nothing to do with sexual satisfaction. He still ached, and he doubted he would ever be able to love another woman again, but he had Sherlock and he was hardly a consolation prize. More than that, he had their child to look forward to: a small piece of himself and the brilliant Sherlock Holmes.

John slipped down to the stream to clean himself up again and staggered back, mentally adding ‘head lamp’ and ‘lantern’ to the list of things Lestrade should bring. Sherlock laughed at him and he ignored him and curled up for more healing sleep.

****

Chapter 23: The Frustrations of Being a Thrall

****

John was awoken by shouting and thrashed himself back into consciousness .

“Oi! John! Get yer arse up here! I’m not fucking climbing anymore!”

“Wha? Greg?” John asked, shining his weak torch in the direction of the brighter light hovering many feet above his head.

“Yeah, errand boy Greg! You get fucking laid on a pile of gold and what do I get? I get to spelunking in a damp cave! You know there are fucking human remains out here? Human remains! Propped up on sticks like some kind of tribal warning! The fuck is going on here?”

“Greg, I just shat out an egg, shot three people defending it while pregnant, and I’m really fucking tired. Toss everything down if you aren’t going to come any further.”

“You laid an egg? Really?”

“Yeah. Out my bum. Now I’d _really_ like to brush my teeth and bathe with actual soap so…?”

Lestrade grumbled to himself and then started repelling down. Sherlock hadn’t moved the entire time and John had no idea if he was commenting silently or if he was even awake. A step or two closer revealed heat still coming off the nest in waves. Lestrade hit the ground and staggered over, tripping over treasure and various odds and ends.

“The fuck are you naked?”

“Sherlock shredded my clothes.”

Lestrade paused a moment and John watched him process those words.

“Nope. Nope. Don’t want to know. Here’s your shit.”

“Thanks,” John replied amicably, accepting the bag of things he’d requested.

“You staying?”

“Yeah, though I might wander out once I’ve healed a bit more. Walking’s a bit painful and exhausting at the moment. How hard is the trip in here?”

“It’s about 20 feet of ‘where the fuck do I put my feet’ but it’s not impossible. It’s some kind of a cave, the entrance to which- did I mention?- has fucking _human bodies_ propped up in front of it.”

“You mentioned, yeah,” John shrugged, “Talk to Sherlock about it.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade muttered as though it were a swear, “Sherlock wants me to talk to Mycroft.”

“About his little invasion of our nest? Pity. _I’d_ like to be the one to talk to him about it.”

“You’re welcome to it. I’m trying to woo the man and Sherlock wants me to go demand answers from him. Fucking hell.”

“Maybe it will lead to angry sex?” John suggested with a shrug.

Lestrade snorted and started making his way up the nest to Sherlock and the egg.

“I’m not so sure…” John began to warn, but was cut off by Sherlock raising his head and roaring at Lestrade. The poor sod toppled backwards and slid down the mound of coins and sharp stones.

“I’m so fucking done with this!” Lestrade roared, flailing and writhing about as he tried to get his legs back under him. “I’m so fucking done with it all!”

John had tugged on a pair of pants and shoes and was scrambling down to Lestrade to help him up. The man shoved John off angrily.

“Do you have any idea what this is like?” Lestrade roared at him, “I never fucking wanted this! I had a fiancée! I had a life! I was fucking _straight_ a month ago! Now I’m mooning over some poncy twit with a brolly fetish, with a dragon haunting my head, and no _fucking life_ left to speak of!”

“Yeah, well I was turned gay, then forced into loving a woman who wanted Sherlock for his hoard, watched her get her brain turned into mush, only to be brought back here and bred like a fucking dog in heat! Then I had to lay an egg, which I can barely get near because of the heat- despite the fact my _child is in there-_ and I don’t even know if he’s alive or dead!”

They both stood there panting in silence, then Lestrade took a step closer to John who shoved him angrily.

“I’m… I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry, I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at Sherlock.”

“I love him! I fucking love him and that probably isn’t even real either!” John raged.

“Course it is, you two are perfect for each other…”

“Why? Because he changed me to be? I’m a puppet, Greg! I’m a marionette.”

“You’re… not… you’re… shit…”

“I’m fucking Pinocchio, but nobody’s cut my strings! I’d die for him and I don’t even know if that’s him or me talking! I have killed for him, and I’d do it again! What kind of life is that?”

“Easy John, easy,” Lestrade soothed, trying to get close enough to comfort him as John continued to stomp and rage around room, kicking at gemstones and overturning cases of coins and jewels.

John turned on him to tell him off again, but arms encircled his waist and pulled him tight against a very hot and very naked body. John went limp, sobbing brokenly as Sherlock eased him to the ground and held him tightly. John laid his head back on Sherlock’s shoulder and wailed out his misery like a child, letting all the pain and sorrow flow. Sherlock held him and rocked him for several minutes before whispering that he had to care for their child and gently passing him to Lestrade. John curled into Lestrade’s arms; face buried against the man’s dusty shirt, and sobbed brokenly. Lestrade petted his hair and muttered soothing words, but their questions remained unanswered.

****

Chapter 24: Manipulation

****

Lestrade left them after a few hours of snuggling with John, which they both muttered was a ‘this never leaves the cave’ scenario. Lestrade informed John that the cave was on the Holmes’ property, and that it had been there for centuries… as well as some of the treasure. Apparently Sherlock’s distant dragon heir had utilized it as well, but the location had been kept secret. Sherlock, after much prodding, admitted he had found it by scent. Apparently he could smell gold for miles away.

_ <I’ve added to it considerably!> _ Sherlock replied tartly, speaking of his hoard with pride.

“Bragging about stealing,” John sighed, “You’re better than that.”

< _I’m a dragon. It’s what we do. Why do you think I get nasty looks whenever we pass a jewelry shop? There are even laws allowing me to take a certain amount of items from a shop. The government recoups the losses to the owner, but they still aren’t happy with the situation. >_

“I imagine not,” John chortled, “If the country weren’t run by dragons I imagine they wouldn’t be happy with it, either.”

_ <They weren’t. They made a big deal about it and told me to go back to my land of origin, conquer it, and steal from their people instead. That’s why I stole the chest from Buckingham Palace. I wanted to prove they weren’t better than me.> _

“I’m ashamed of how impressed I am, and of how much that made sense to me.”

Sherlock snorted and went back to ignoring him in favor of crooning over their egg. He hummed sometimes, a tuneless melody that seemed to John to sound like very distant wind howling in trees or across a moor. As John rebuilt his strength by climbing about the cave and exploring the nooks and crannies, he often heard the dragon transform into his human shape and talk to their egg as well. Sherlock continued to hunt for them, bringing back food, skinning it, and boiling it with his dragon ability. He buried the entrails and skins, apparently.

John ventured outside the cave that same day to soak up some sunlight and the swim in a nearby lake that fed their little cave’s stream. He’d encountered one or two of Mycroft’s men patrolling the area, but they left him alone and he did the same. Lestrade, however, was a different matter.

XXXXXXXXX

Lestrade always prided himself on not giving a fuck about his appearance. That being said, showing up at the Holmes’ mansion covered in cave mold and rock dust with a healthy helping of John’s snot and tears on his shoulder was a bit further than he was willing to go. Especially when he was still trying to impress the current resident of said giant fucking estate.

Lestrade checked himself into a cheap motel, prettied himself up, and headed back around the dinner hour to knock on the door.

“What took you so long?” Mycroft asked acerbically once he was led into the splendor of whatever-the-fuck-this-rediculously-elegant-room-was-called, “I expected you hours ago.”

“How did you know I was coming?” Lestrade asked, always impressed by the man’s intelligence. He was even more cunning than Sherlock, and usually had a less biting tongue… usually.

“You were _allowed_ entry onto this property because you are Sherlock’s thrall and he is still a member of this household. Do not by any means think that means you were unobserved. You’ve changed your clothes, I see.”

“Like them?” Lestrade asked with a wink.

“No,” Mycroft stated without emotion, “How fairs my brother, his mate, and the new addition to the Holmes legacy?”

“All well, though John made some rather alarming comment about not knowing if the baby was alive inside that shell.”

Mycroft sighed, “They won’t know until it either hatches or rots. Damn them both.”

“Why did you try to storm the lair, anyway? And why send a bunch of suits without guns? You’re supposed to use knights for that sort of thing, you know.”

“Oh, my, Sir Gregory, do slay the vicious dragon for me!” Mycroft twittered mockingly.

“For you? Anything,” Lestrade winked salaciously.

Mycroft smirked and Lestrade chuckled, accepting his drink from the servant at his elbow with a nod of thanks.

“So, why? It cost three men their lives and John’s mind-fucked over it,” Lestrade replied in all seriousness.

“Because of the very reason you previously stated. Dragons laying eggs is a relatively new development, despite what mythology would have you believe. It is not uncommon for the egg to be overheated, underheated, or unhelped when it is finally time for it to hatch. I am hopeful that having John there will aid with the final issue, but overall I wanted a full medical team to keep the egg monitored at all times. I was hoping to extract John just as he’d reached the safe point- egg hard enough to survive movement but not yet laid- in order to transfer him to a Dragonologist and have him _painlessly_ deliver the egg into an incubator.”

“Sounds reasonable. You couldn’t have debated this out with Sherlock?”

“I tried to. My brother and I don’t have the psychic link you have. His instincts are demanding only his thralls be allowed near his nest. Technically speaking you could walk right in there, pick up the egg, and walk back out.”

“Not so,” Lestrade argued, shaking his head, “I tried to get a look at it and he raised holy hell.”

“Likely he would, but he wouldn’t have actively stopped you. His instincts tell him that his thralls are precious, more so than his hoard or perhaps equally so, and that they can be trusted with his young. He would scream and make a fuss, but he would allow you to move the egg so long as your movements did not endanger it. Walk in with a heated box, for instance, and place the egg inside on a cushion, and he’d have no cause to hinder you.”

Lestrade was silent a moment, twirling his drink and staring into it’s amber depths as though they held the answer to life itself.

“You want me to do it, don’t you? You want me to take his kid away from him and give it to you.”

“It would be best for all involved, Gregory,” Mycroft insisted, using his given name for the first time, “We could ensure the child within- assuming he or she is still alive- is delivered safely into this world. Sherlock would be grateful in the end. My brother never has cared for responsibility. If it weren’t for you and John being in his life I’d be insisting the child was reared by myself.”

Lestrade sipped his drink and studied Mycroft quietly, “He knows. He knows everything I do and think.”

“Actually, he does not. He can connect with you, but he doesn’t remain in contact constantly. Right now he is distracted, which was as good a reason to annihilate Ms. Morstan as any. She was a true threat to his unborn child. I am not.”

“Aren’t you?” Lestrade asked.

“Gregory,” Mycroft purred, using his _fucking_ name again, “You’ve been professing an attraction to me for some time now. Surely you can’t possibly think I’m a monster? I want what is best for my niece or nephew, and for Sherlock and John in the long run. Think of their devastation should they come to realize that they inadvertently harmed their unborn child?”

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably, looking away, but then looking back with a sad smile on his face.

“You’re manipulating me. Manipulating my feelings. How’s that better than Morstan?”

“I suppose it is not,” Mycroft stated, “But unlike Ms. Morstan, I am prepared to follow through.”

“In what way?”

“Perhaps a tour of the House? I’d love to show you how beautiful the Holmes estate is.”

Gregory blinked at the sudden change of topic, but nodded happily as he really needed time to get his thoughts in order. Mycroft got to his feet and motioned for Lestrade to come with him. What followed was a short, but apparently informative, sightsee of the rather lovely Holmes mansion; sadly Lestrade was too deep in his own thoughts to listen to the history and cheerfully delivered anecdotes Mycroft poured out. He hummed and nodded and made non-committal noises where appropriate, but was overall not paying a lick of attention.

Which was why he was so floored when the tour ended in Mycroft’s bedroom with the man pressing him to a dark oak door and snogging him senseless.

[DRAGON BLOOD CHAPTER 25-29](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/108529.html)

[DRAGON BLOOD 2.0 CHAPTER 25-28](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/110280.html)


	6. vincentmeoblinn | Dragon Blood Ch 25-29

Chapter 25: Feels

****

Lestrade was lost a moment, overwhelmed by lust and the feel of a hard member pressed into his hip for the first time in his life. He _wanted_ this. He wanted to feel the man inside him, taking him fast and hard. He’d never once in his entire life imagined himself in such a position, but it suddenly made a great deal of sense to just _give in_.

Except he knew there was a price and hadn’t he already been in relationships like that before?

Lestrade pushed Mycroft towards the gigantic four-poster bed and shoved him onto it. The auburn haired man gasped as he was pushed backwards and looked up at Lestrade with eyes glazed with lust.

_ So this is what you look like when you drop the act. Did you mean to? Or have I taken you by as much surprise as you have me? _

Lestrade tackled the man’s trousers while continuing to kiss his neck and nip his earlobe. Mycroft was unbuttoning his shirt, but he didn’t get far. Once he had Mycroft’s trousers down he slid a hand into his pants and stroked the long shaft he found within. Mycroft moaned and threw his head back in bliss as Lestrade took up a satisfying rhythm, twisting his hand at the end to drive the man wild. He watched, panting with his own contained desire, as Mycroft fell apart in front of him. The aristocrat’s hips jerked up into Lestrade’s hand and he gasped in each breath as though starved.

“W-wait… I don’t want to finish before…”

“Shut up,” Lestrade growled and pushed the man’s shoulder so that he fell back, boneless with pleasure, onto the mattress behind him.

Then Lestrade dropped to his knees, wrapped his mouth around Mycroft’s leaking prick, and sucked him sloppily- just the way he liked it done to himself. Mycroft was soon panting out an orgasm, which Lestrade swallowed down greedily.

“My gods, Gregory!” Mycroft gasped, “I thought you’d be inexperienced but…”

“I am. Was,” Lestrade stood up and adjusted himself in his trousers as Mycroft lay limp on the bed, his softening prick glistening where it lay peering out of the now damp slit in his pants.

“Then I look forward to what surreal pleasures you can provide once given a bit of experience,” Mycroft purred, gliding to his feet like a cat, “Now allow me to show you my _own_ talents.”

“Not interested, thanks,” Lestrade stated firmly, turning and heading for the door, “How the fuck do you get out of this maze?”

“Gregory, you’re hard as a rock and have just performed fantastic fellatio on me, are you really going to play hard to get now?”

“I’m not playing hard to get, My,” Lestrade replied, turning back with his hand on the doorknob, “I want you. I want you bad enough to blow a load in my fucking pants right now, but you know what I don’t want? Your conditions. Glad you liked the blowjob; now fuck off Mycroft Holmes. I’m not stealing Sherlock’s egg for you. He’ll manage or he won’t on his own, and you know what? I’ll be there to help him with it… the way you _should_ be.”

Then he turned and marched out and somehow managed to find his way to the front door without embarrassing himself by asking the help; and if he hurt just a little bit on the way back to the cave, well it isn’t easy walking six miles with a raging hard on. Never mind it had vanished ages ago and the pain wasn’t in his pants in the first place.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John looked up in surprise as Lestrade staggered over to him through the pile of money and flopped down in his nest.

“That was fast.”

“Shut up. My turn.”

“Your turn for wha…”

You don’t live with Sherlock Holmes for long without learning when the appropriate time is to shut up, so when Lestrade wrapped his arms around John, put his head on his shoulder, and let out a shuddering sigh, he simply held him gently and provided what comfort he could. When the man got his emotions under control and sat back John waited to see if any information was forthcoming and then decided to prod a bit.

“I’d offer to go out for drinks to get your mind off things, but I’m not sure how thrilled Sherlock would be if we got up and waltzed out of here for hours to get pissed.”

Lestrade snorted, “Not a good idea anyway. You’d best stay close to the cave. Mycroft is planning on stealing your and Sherlock’s egg.”

“What?” John asked in fury, “Where the hell does he get off!”

“He’s afraid you two won’t take proper care of it. He says a lot of dragons don’t know how. Is that true? Would the egg be better off in a hospital incubator?”

Sherlock shifted on his coin nest above them, making distressed sounds but not answering.

“I don’t know,” John sighed.

“He said Sherlock wouldn’t interfere if one of us moved the egg so long as we kept it warm enough while doing it.”

“I suppose he wouldn’t, but do you _really_ want to upset dragon daddy up there?”

“I think the more important question would be: how upset would he be if we didn’t, the egg died, and we could have prevented it?”

“Well, that’s the worst question I’ve ever been asked,” John groused.

“Yeah, me too. Add to it Mycroft threw sex in as a bargaining chip and you’ve got my reason for needing a drink or two.”

“I hope you fucked him raw then told him to go to hell,” John snapped.

Lestrade grinned miserably, “I sucked him off, apparently a natural talent, and then told him to go to hell.”

“Did you at least _get off_?” John asked angrily.

“No. I’ve got my dignity, you know? I wasn’t going to give in to him and let him feel he won.”

“Fuck dignity that _bastard…!”_

Sherlock interrupted their conversation by standing and shifting about to heat the coins again.

“Damn, that looks dangerous. Am I the only one thinking hard boiled egg?”

“Greg! Fucking hell! That’s our kid!” John stammered in horror.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m just worried is all.”

Sherlock transformed and slid down the coin pile with that annoying grace of his, dropping to his knees in John’s nest.

 “I’ve made a lot of mistakes lately,” Sherlock stated, plucking at John’s bedding and not making eye contact, “I don’t know how to speak with people _normally_ , you know. Now I’m trying to figure this out between us. My first thrall…”

John and Lestrade stared in alarm as a look of pain crossed Sherlock’s face. He took a slow, steadying breath, as though holding back tears, before continuing.

“My first thrall was miserable. I ruined her life. I never meant to. I was confused and lost and angry, and she resented me terribly for making her my… puppet…” Sherlock glanced at John warily, and then glanced down to continue, “In the end she grew so sad that she killed herself. I didn’t get to her in time to stop her and I didn’t have the control over her I have over you two now. I’m not sure I should have stopped her anyway. I think, to a certain extent, it was her choice to make and I should have stayed out of it.”

John and Lestrade moved forward as one, tugging Sherlock into their arms and petting the creature’s mop of curls.

“I was just angry when I said that earlier, Sherlock. You’ve given my life meaning. I’m frustrated sometimes, because I’m confused, but I do love you and I do want you to be happy. I don’t want out. Not by killing myself or any other way,” John soothed.

Sherlock turned his head to Lestrade, waiting for his two cents.

“I… bloody hell,” Lestrade’s voice cracked, “I’m confused as hell, Sherlock. I don’t know who I am anymore and I don’t like that. Why am I even attracted to Mycroft?”

“My theory,” Sherlock sighed, “Is that at some deeper level I care for my brother- non-romantically, obviously- and have pushed those feelings onto you subconsciously in an attempt to take care of him. You’re the sort he’s generally attracted to: confident, cheerful, not afraid to take command, and a good sense of humor. You’re crude, which isn’t his sort, but I like and respect that about you.”

“Well, thanks, I guess,” Lestrade snorted.

“I don’t mean to interfere in your thoughts or actions. Some of it is involuntary. My mind manipulates you and I can’t control it,” Sherlock explained, sounding frustrated, “That’s one of the reasons I was shooting up. I wanted to block myself. I was so afraid I’d wake up to one of you dead…”

They pressed close again, holding each other tight and pressing anxious kisses to Sherlock’s head and cheeks. It became intimate so slowly, so gradually, that it wasn’t until Sherlock slipped away that John and Greg realized they were kissing each other. Arms wrapped around, Lestrade leaned back and John lay across him, their hips pressed lazily together as desire began to grow between them. Sherlock, for his part, didn’t wander off, but sat watching the two as they slowly stripped off clothes and tenderly explored each other’s bodies. Sherlock slipped oil onto John’s fingertips and he gently prepared the other man without letting his lips leave Gregory’s even for an instant. When he slid inside him, it was slowly and with infinite care. Greg moaned gently, his arms wrapping tightly around John’s shoulders, and then relaxed into the slow rocking motion as John made tender love to him.

“Oh, Greg,” John whispered, kissing his neck gently and nipping his earlobe.

Gregory sobbed, clutched at John tightly, wrapping his legs around the doctor’s waist. John sped up, angling his hips to pleasure the man, and moaned when he felt him begin to clench in approaching orgasm. He slipped a hand between them and stroked his aching prick in double pace to his thrusts until he came shouting in pleasure.

“My! Oh, gods, Mycroft! Yes! Ah!” Gregory cried out, back bowed in pleasure.

“Yes, yes,” John whispered, milking the man’s prostate as he sought his own orgasm.

When John came it was more release than climax, and he sighed out Sherlock’s name before relaxing in Gregory’s arms. They held each other gently, kissing slowly and whispering each other’s names this time. Neither questioned what had happened, but slowly drew apart when the moment felt right.

Hand in hand, John showed Lestrade the way to the creek and they bathed in silence before re-dressing and heading back up to John’s nest. Sherlock had retreated back to his own nest above them on the golden pile, and he was curled up and sleeping soundly around their steaming offspring.

“What do we do?” Lestrade whispered.

“I don’t know. Sherlock hasn’t a high opinion about Dragonologists, but at the same time… my gods, Greg, what if he’s right? Sherlock’s already devastated about loosing a thrall… our child... my baby…” John pressed a hand to his abdomen, for the first time wishing the egg were inside of him again and therefore safe.

“So we take it?” Lestrade asked, his hand gently rubbing the small of John’s back.

“I… I think he wants us to. He didn’t address it, you heard, just… just brought up past mistakes.”

“Yeah, I caught that,” Lestrade acknowledged.

“The nest is too hot to approach. Only just before he re-heats it is it even safe for us to touch.”

“It’s putting off heat now, I can feel it from here. He must have heated it while we were washing up. Mycroft said something about a heated box to transfer the egg.”

“So we go to Mycroft?” John asked, leaning into Gregory’s comforting touch, “Gods, is this what women feel like? Is this maternal instinct? Bloody hell, I’m going to be a mummy!”

Greg chuckled and pressed a kiss to John’s temple, “Let’s focus on one life-altering revelation at a time, yeah? Egg? Steal?”

“Yeah,” John sighed, “We’d better.”

****

Chapter 26: A Treasure Surrounded by Treasure

****

John rang at the large black double doors and waited for a short eternity before a disagreeable looking man in a housecoat answered them.

“Have you any idea what time it is?”

“Nope. I’ve been living with a dragon in a cave for an indeterminate amount of time. I don’t even know what day it is.”

“I’ll fetch Mr. Holmes, do come in,” the man stated sourly.

“Thanks.”

John sat himself down on a chair just inside the doorway and laid his head back to rest on the wall. He was asleep almost instantly and startled awake when a throat cleared in front of him.

“Mr. Holmes will see you now,” The butler informed with a judgmental glare. He was dressed now, so apparently his services were being demanded. John would have felt bad for him if he hadn’t had his own shit to deal with.

John was led into a dimly lit library where Mycroft Holmes sat smoking a pipe in front of a fireplace, which was the only source of light in the room besides a dim light on far opposite side. John came in and threw himself down into a chair.

“I’m surprised you made the journey yourself. You must be weary from your convalescence,” Mycroft commented, though his eyes never left the fire. He seemed to be contemplating something and John felt as though he were intruding on something nearly religious.

“I felt it best I come, considering you tried to seduce Greg in exchange for my child last time he was here.”

Mycroft remained silent and John glared at him accusingly for several minutes before continuing: “We want to have the egg transferred to a hospital and professional care. I’ve come for whatever box you mentioned to Lestrade to safely move it. It will need to be padded, though. The cave has no easy entrance.”

Mycroft continued to stare and John was fit to stand up and start an honest to goodness row with the man when he sighed and lowered his pipe with an air of finality.

“I rarely smoke, Dr. Watson. I consider it a filthy habit, and it’s more my brother who aspires to those, don’t you agree?”

“Do you ever say anything decent or kind?”

“Sadly, such dialogue is rare in my profession.”

“Are you going to help us or not? Or maybe I should ask if you’re going to help yourself, because you seem to think you’ll be making something out of this somehow. We’ll be raising our child, by the way. Just in case that wasn’t clear.”

“Gregory is much more succinct than you are. I had really hoped he would be the one to return.”

“Well, you kind of scared him off by being a colossal manipulative cock tease.”

Mycroft was silent for another long while and John pushed himself to his feet to storm off.

“Can Sherlock hear you? Can you ask him a question for me?”

John paused and turned back with a sigh, “Yeah. I can get his attention if I need to. Why?”

“Ask him if there’s anyone in the medical profession he trusts, besides yourself, obviously.”

“I don’t have to. He’s got a thrall in the profession. Why?”

“What is her specialty?”

“She’s a pathologist.”

Mycroft snorted and John silently agreed with him.

“Can you contact her?”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“Can he?”

“I assume. He doesn’t mention her much. I get the feeling the poor things besotted and he’s uncomfortable with it.”

“Poor thing indeed. Ask him.”

“Okay, what message do you want relayed through Watson’s Telepathic Telegram Service?”

“Ask him if he will allow this pathologist into the nest with medical equipment and a communication device with the outside world. Ask him also if he has a Dragonologist he prefers.”

“You want to keep the egg where it is now? Bring in someone to monitor it and have her report to a Dragonologist?”

“Precisely.”

“What made you change your mind? I know I don’t know you well, but it doesn’t seem to me like you’re the sort who lets go of the reigns.”

Mycroft turned in his seat slightly to look at John for the first time that night.

“As I said earlier: Gregory is much more succinct than you are. Ask him also if… ask him if I will be allowed down there.”

John nodded and sat himself back down in the chair opposite Mycroft. He closed his eyes and pushed hard to get through Sherlock’s intense concentration on their unborn child.

_ Sher? Sher can you hear me, love? _

_ <What, John? I’m tired.> _

_ Would you let Molly into the nest with medical equipment to monitor the baby? _

_ <Possibly. I don’t know what all would work. Most medical equipment has plastic and rubber that would melt at the temperatures I’ve got around our little one.> _

John smiled at the warmth in Sherlock’s ‘voice’ when he thought the word ‘little one’.

_ I think they might have stuff specifically for this situation. What about communication equipment? I know you guard your hoard jealously, but could Molly talk to someone outside? A Dragonologist? _

_ <I would… allow it.> _

_ What Dragonologist? _

_ <Doesn’t matter. They’re all useless.> _

_ Okaaaay, any preference for which useless doctor helps us with our unborn child? _

Sherlock didn’t respond and John assumed that was his answer.

XXXXXXXXX

It took the remainder of the night to get everything organized and a very tired Molly Hooper was dragged out of bed first thing in the morning. She was carefully lowered into the cave where she squealed and fussed over Sherlock and the egg. Sherlock postured and crooned and showed her (and finally showed Lestrade) his prize.

“Oh, Sherlock, I can’t believe you’re going to be a mummy!” Molly squealed as she set up the equipment.

“Actually, I’m the mummy,” John sighed, and ignored Lestrade’s snickering.

“Oh,” Molly replied, a forced smile in place.

They waited until the ambient temperature was low enough to tolerate and then Molly and John hooked up the devices to the egg and Molly gently ran the sensor back and forth above the egg while John waited nervously by the screen a few paces off.

“Okay. I can see a white mass surrounded by black, but I don’t see… Oh! There they are! Arms and a head! Two little legs…” John’s jaw dropped and his voice lowered to an awed whisper, “He moved.”

Lestrade was looking over John’s shoulder and he gave it a firm squeeze before heading over to Sherlock’s large head and stroking his snout.

“Okay, all the probes are in place. Sherlock needs to heat the nest again in just under a minute,” Molly informed the Dragonologist over the radio, “Are you getting video?”

“Yes,” Dr. Pria stated firmly, “Looks like the fetus is developing well.”

“We’re setting the Doppler up now… audio?”

The room filled with a soft whisper and the group waited for a moment, then everyone breathed a sigh of relief as a sound echoed through the chamber.

_ Wub-wub, wub-wub, wub-wub. _

“That’s our childs heartbeat, Sherlock,” John smiled through tears.

Sherlock crooned and then shooed Molly away. He re-buried his egg, careful not to dislodge any sensors, and then lowered his muzzle to breathe steam into the coins and heat it from below. The audio changed just a bit as the baby rolled, shifted, and the heartbeat suddenly increased. Sherlock made a worried sound, but then the child settled once more.

“Nothing to worry about,” Dr. Pria stated calmly, “The fetus was probably startled by the sudden increase in temperature. I’m surprised you’re doing it this way Mr. Holmes.”

“Why?” John asked for Sherlock.

“Because raising and dropping the temperature rather than keeping it consistent will result in a female hatchling. I would have thought you’d want a son.”

_ <I was going off of instincts, but females are easier to breed so I suppose this is proper. She’ll have her choice of mates and none of the difficulties we have had so far.> _

John repeated that back and Dr. Pria agreed with the idea.

“I’ll continue to monitor the situation from here. We may have glitches in communication from time to time, so keep your machines running as a backup. If the heartbeat speeds up or slows enough to set off the alarm I must be contacted immediately. If you want to avoid damaging her development then you’ll need to continue to raise and lower the temperature consistently. You can end up with a hermaphrodite or an asexual child otherwise.”

“That’s why so many dragons are asexual?” John asked in surprise.

“Yes. Dragons born from two males via an egg tend to not develop correctly due to the delicate heating balance. A female pregnant dragon with a live birth fetus will automatically regulate her body’s heat. That option isn’t available for eggs. As a result the brain does not develop enough to regulate hormones; essentially they never hit puberty. This differs from normal human asexuality, obviously.”

“Which is why Sherlock had no business being asexual since he wasn’t hatched from an egg,” John pointed out angrily, “You knew from the start something wasn’t right.”

“I made the call I believed was best,” Dr. Pria replied coldly.

John ground his teeth and tried not to piss off the woman helping keep their child alive; it was a comfort to him to know that Sherlock was doing everything correctly. Still, he rather wished they’d found someone else. Perhaps he’d talk to Mycroft about it, but that would have to wait, as Sherlock was not allowing any non-thralls into his cave. In the mean time John, Lestrade, and Molly sat down to play a game of cards and listen to the monitors. John and Molly were going to take 6 hour rotation shifts, making sure the egg was carefully studied at all times. Lestrade and Sherlock would keep them company in turns as well, though each would leave at times to get food and other necessities. John’s shift asleep was first and he drifted off to the soft sound of his child’s heartbeat.

** Alternative Ending to Chapter 26 by Anihan (Nakagami)  **

[ http://archiveofourown.org/works/879131/chapters/1690663 ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/879131/chapters/1690663)   
by  [ Anihan (Nakagami) ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakagami/pseuds/Anihan)

Please give this person your love in the form of kudos and NICE comments.

****

Chapter 27: Deleted Scene Ch 5 Shell Shocked

And just for fun, here’s Molly’s perspective of her enthrallment ;)

He was naked, gorgeous, and quite upset, and beyond that Molly couldn’t focus on anything else. She slipped back into the mortuary to find a tall, thin man with gorgeous dark curly hair crying quietly in a corner of the morgue.

“Helloo?” Molly tried, “Are you hurt? Should I get someone or… maybe some tea… a pair of pants?”

The man snickered and then motioned her closer. Molly had no reason to step any closer except… well, had she mentioned the gorgeous part? The beautiful young man motioned for a tissue and she fetched one for him, pressing it into his long fingered hand. The man accepted the tissue and managed to very gracefully blow his nose. Molly dropped down in front of him on the floor.

“Is something wrong, sweetie?” Molly asked, petting his cheek gently.

He nodded and curled into Molly’s arms, resting his head on her bosom. Molly froze a moment, and then petted his head awkwardly. Eventually he pulled back with a grin and stared into her eyes long enough to make her knees weak. Then he simply stood and headed towards the door with a spring in his step.

< _I’m going to be here for a bit while my… boyfriend… recovers from some injuries. Do be a dear and put my name down for some lab time. Use your name if you must. I’ll be down tomorrow. >_ It took a moment for her to realize he hadn’t spoken out loud.

The door swung closed behind him and Molly suddenly recalled where she’d seen him before and what he was… and what that stare had meant for a fellow doctor a few years ago.

“O-okay…” She squeaked from the floor.

****

Chapter 28: Instinct

This chapter is dedicated to tiskate and Anihan (Nakagami) for all their fantastic suggestions. Thank you for helping my world blossom.

Lestrade huffed and puffed as he dragged himself over the last boulder and out into the sun. He groaned and rotated his sore shoulder before heading off to the right where a group of tents was set up. Most of these were doctors or tents full of monitoring equipment, but one of them was done up in a tribute to opulence. Surrounded by satin pillows, a gigantic bed with a mosquito canopy, and an oriental rug sat Mycroft Holmes’ in a stuffed, highback chair reading a book by the light of an antique kerosene lantern.

“Isn’t the lantern a bit much?” Lestrade asked from the entrance, not willing to enter with his filthy clothes and muck the place up.

“It sets the mood.”

“Of what? Wealthy English settler in untamed India? Where’s your shirtless bowing servant, Sahib?”

“Auditioning for the roll begins now… you’re hired,” Mycroft smirked.

Lestrade blushed and ducked his head, but he quickly shook it off and looked up soberly.

“Actually, this isn’t a social call. Sherlock’s calling for you. He says the eggs going to hatch and he wants you down there.”

“When?” Mycroft asked, bolting to his feet and tugging his silk dressing gown off as he hurried for his clothes.

“Tonight,” Lestrade replied, swallowing at the sight of Mycroft Holmes in a pair of white boxers and vest. The man also wore a pair of knee high navy blue socks held up by suspenders.

_ I didn’t know I had a suspender kink until just now. _

_ <Spare me the details. Please.> _

_ Sorry, didn’t mean to transmit that. _

_ <Do tell him not to dress up. He’s spelunking to a birth, not walking to a tea party.> _

“Sherlock says to dress for muck.”

“I was planning to,” Mycroft stated, straightening up with a pair of jeans and a long sleeved, checked shirt in his hands.

_ Bloody hell, I hope they’re tight jeans _ .

< _Lestrade! Gods! >_

_ Sorry! Sorry! _

_ <We need to find a way to block you. Urgently.> _

Dr. Pria waylaid them on the way back, insisting that it wasn’t time yet.

“If Sherlock rushes this the baby will be born _underdeveloped_. That’s far worse for hatchlings than it is for human babies. She’ll be unable to breathe.”

“Look, take it up with the doctors. I’ve got no fucking clue,” Lestrade snipped, dodging around her.

“I will then!” She replied, and grabbed a pair of gloves and boots as though to follow them.

“Oh, no! Sherlock will roast and eat you, and I mean that literally!” Lestrade snapped, tugging the gloves and boots from her hands and tossing them aside.

“I need to be there for the hatching!”

“You need to be here giving them instructions and keeping your pretty little head clear of boiling dragon breath,” Lestrade scoffed, “You’ll do us no good dead.”

In the end it was Mycroft who convinced her to stay, then followed Lestrade down into the cave with shaky knees.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John watched the egg wobble again and grinned from ear to ear before re-attaching the probes. He was both nervous and excited. The last few months had been exhausting, but well worth the wait if their little one was going to be born soon. Sherlock insisted the egg was going to be ready tonight and had refused to continue to heat it despite urgings from Dr. Pria on the surface. John was worried, but also trusted Sherlock not to harm their child. He could see their baby on the monitor and she was moving about impatiently.

“Once the umbilical cord detaches she’ll be unable to breathe on her own,” John said for what must have been the tenth time.

“Mmm,” Sherlock stated, standing beside him and studying the picture, “Tonight. It will happen tonight. I can feel it.”

John stood and pulled Sherlock against himself, kissing the dragon-man soundly. Sherlock moaned softly into his mouth. It had been a while. Sherlock had little interest in sex while he was nesting and John was tired from monitoring the screens with Molly. Still, they had no time to indulge now. Sherlock’s mind was on their egg and John’s was on their future.

Mycroft and Lestrade repelled into the cave an hour later and Mycroft looked around Sherlock’s cave in awe.

“Touch anything and die,” Sherlock informed Mycroft calmly.

“I wouldn’t dream of… is that Mummy’s antique vase?”

“No.”

Mycroft sighed and found a boulder to sit on. Lestrade hovered nearby nervously before giving up and going to the stream to clean up. John couldn’t help but notice that he’d picked a section of the stream that would be visible to Mycroft from where he was seated, though he kept his back carefully facing the man. John thought it impressive that he never once glanced over to see if Mycroft was watching. He thought it even more impressive that Mycroft calmly watched without fidgeting once.

“They’ll figure it out,” Sherlock smiled as he watched the two flirt in their own odd ways.

“Yes,” John smiled, “Will you be upset when they do?”

“No, will you be jealous?”

“No. Why would I?” John asked, genuinely curious.

“You two were intimate,” Sherlock pointed out, and John blushed.

“It didn’t feel like it, I mean it did, but it didn’t. In my mind it was you, not him.”

“That is… beautiful.”

“He seems to feel the same. We haven’t been any different towards each other. Well, maybe a bit more handsy,” John laughed.

Sherlock chuckled and bussed his head before returning to his egg once more.

Hours passed. Sherlock heated the egg once, but only a very little bit to keep the chill from the cave from creeping in. Dr. Pria was in a fit, demanding Sherlock continue heating it as he had before and claiming the readouts showed the baby was in distress.

“I’m not seeing what you are, Doctor,” John stated, giving Molly a baffled look.

Molly yawned, having been interrupted from her sleep shift, and leaned over John to look at the screen.

“Dr. Pria, I have to agree with John. She seems to be quite fine,” Molly gave John an equally baffled look.

“Are either of you Dragonologists?”

“No, but I’m having sex with one, and he’s got a heartbeat same as this one does,” John snapped irritably.

Molly snorted and blushed.

“The heartbeat isn’t the problem. The lung development is,” Dr. Pria argued.

“Baby’s making breathing motions,” John sighed, “Looks fine to me.”

“Are you an obstetrician?”

“No,” John admitted, glancing to Sherlock for support. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and ignored them both.

John flipped the comm off and headed over to the nest where Sherlock was curling up around their egg.

“Come and keep her warm with me,” Sherlock smiled invitingly.

John lay down opposite Sherlock, pressing himself against the egg and wrapping an arm around her to mesh fingers with Sherlock. They smiled gently at each other, but John’s smile was nowhere near as serene as Sherlock’s.

“Be honest with me? Do you know what you’re doing? Is our baby okay?”

“I am. Yes. Yes.”

John took a deep breath, “Okay. I trust you.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

The egg was moving around manically as their tiny baby kicked against the walls of her oblong prison. John was anxious and Sherlock had joined him now. Sherlock nervously paced around the egg, moving here and there without a discernable pattern but always studying his egg. It had grown over the months to the size of a large pumpkin and was full to the brim with tiny baby. From the ultrasound this was a human child, but John still thought of her as a dragon.

“Will she be a dragon, Sherlock? What are the odds she has your traits? They’re recessive, aren’t they?”

“No. Dominant. She’s very likely to be a dragon.”

“That… that doesn’t make sense,” John stammered, “The trait has to be recessive; that’s why your parents and theirs weren’t dragons.”

“The trait is dominant, but those born without carry it recessively.”

“That still doesn’t make sense,” John replied, “In fact the dragon gene just appearing after generations doesn’t either.”

Sherlock shrugged, but Mycroft’s eyes had narrowed on John as though suddenly suspicious.

“What?” John asked in confusion.

“Not a thing,” Mycroft replied, sniffing and going back to minding his own business.

John focused on the egg again, but just at that moment Sherlock suddenly stiffened, transformed into a dragon, and bellowed out a challenge. John looked up in alarm to see Dr. Pria at the cave opening, glaring down on them and holding a rather alarmingly large weapon.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” She stated in a soothing voice, “I just want to make sure the baby is okay. Mr. Holmes, please heat the egg again. If you don’t I’m going to put you to sleep and move the baby to a facility. I’ll also see to it she’s kept from your custody. A drug addict is hardly a fit parent, but I’ll make an allowance and give you a chance to try raising her if you obey me in this. Heat the egg.”

Sherlock snarled and leaned forward, guarding the egg with his strong hide, but John recognized the weapon in her hand. It was an electrical pulse weapon and didn’t have to pierce Sherlock’s thick skin to knock him unconscious. It would also kill any and all humans instantly on contact. John, Molly, and Lestrade snatched up weapons and moved to defend the egg without thinking. Inside John was in turmoil. He wanted to trust Sherlock, but Dr. Pria was a professional and was clearly terrified for their child’s wellbeing. What if she was right?

“Heat. The. Egg.” Pria stated, and they heard the gun start to charge, “Your thralls are first and they will _not_ survive a single shot- no matter how good at healing you are.”

_ <John! She’s ready! She has to come out now!> _

“Sherlock says she’s ready to hatch now…”

“He’s _wrong_!” Dr. Pria insisted, her voice cracking, “I don’t want to see that baby die! Please! You’re a doctor; you know the oath I took. Let me take care of her!”

John wavered.

_ <John! She can’t wait! She’ll suffocate!> _

“She’s going to suffocate. We have to get her out now,” John insisted, deciding to side with Sherlock.

“Don’t move!” Pria screamed, “I will kill you, I swear I will.”

< _John! Break the egg! I’ll hold her off! >_

John made a move to dart behind Sherlock and get to the baby but Pria fired the gun. John turned with a cry and saw Sherlock topple down the pile of coins, unconscious with a burn to the side of his neck. He hesitated a moment, not sure if he should go after Sherlock or the baby.

“Don’t move or I’ll kill you all! Go check on your dragon, Dr. Watson. I can’t guarantee that shout didn’t seriously harm him.”

John sobbed and stood immobile with indecision: his child behind him or his love before him.

“You can always have other children,” Pria coaxed, “Leave that one to me.”

A loud crack filled the room and John spun to see Mycroft holding a diamond in his hand and bringing it down on the eggshell over and again. Pria couldn’t get a shot in on him and shouldered the weapon to take them all out one by one. John, Lestrade, and Molly continued to block her way while she screamed at them to move. Below them John saw Sherlock move and heard him groan in pain. He was shaking but he held his ground.

A sharp cry filled the air and Mycroft slid down the slope of coins behind them to take better cover with his precious cargo. Knowing his child safe and his lover at the very least alive, John pulled out his gun and shot Pria in the chest before she could work up the courage to kill any of them. The gun toppled to the ground, smashing on a stalagmite along the way, and John slid down the slope to check on Sherlock.

“Molly! See to the baby!” John shouted, despite the fact his heart was still torn in two.

“Okay!” Molly cried back.

He heard Lestrade come down the way with him and they both watched as Sherlock’s body shimmered and then transformed into a human. He was unconscious when John reached him, but still breathing shallowly. The sound of soft cries still reached them from the other side of the treasure pile and John whispered to Sherlock as he carefully examined the man, checking his pulse to see if his heart were faltering from the harsh current he’d just been subjected to.

“You hear that, Sher? That’s our little girl. You hold on so you can see her, yeah? You’ve wanted this too long to leave me without kissing her even once… Greg. Blankets. He’s going into shock.”

Greg bolted and John scooped up treasure to use as a pillow to elevate the man’s head and legs. There was a third degree burn on his neck, but it was only coin sized now that he was transformed. Nerve damage and infection were the biggest risk after heart attack and shock. Heart attack didn’t seem to be occurring, shock was about to be treated, and infection… they were in a cold, damp, cave with high walls and small chance of safe e-vac without assistance. John made the call.

“Turn that communicator back on,” John ordered Lestrade once he returned with their bedding, “We need to reach someone. Get a team out here to medivac him out.”

John wrapped Sherlock warmly and kept speaking to him to keep him as present as possible. He continued to monitor his vitals, occasionally updating the team Lestrade had on the communicator by shouting the results to them. Mycroft appeared eventually, a small squalling bundle in his arms, and knelt beside John who looked over in a mixture of sadness and joy. Molly joined them and shoved John aside.

“Let me do that, you hold your daughter,” Molly urged and John gave Sherlock one last kiss and abandoned him to Molly’s care.

“Hello, beautiful,” John told Sherlock’s miniature visage as he took her into his arms, “I’m sorry you’re not getting a proper greeting, but I swear to you… I swear you’re loved. When your daddy gets a chance to hold you he is _never_ going to let you go.”

He pressed a kiss to the tiny forehead and the baby stilled for a moment, little clenched fists relaxed just a bit and the eyes opened to blearily blink up at John.

Bright blue eyes, she had gotten John’s eyes- easily his best feature. John sobbed, and the baby burst into tears again, hungry and scared.

“It’s okay, Lian,” John soothed gently, “It’s all going to be fine.”

****

Chapter 29: Sponsor

****

“Your sponsor- Who was it?” Mycroft demanded as he stood over Dr. Pria, “Sherlock’s fan. I want a name.”

“No,” She wheezed.

“You’re dying, but there’s still time to hurt you. Give me a name,” Mycroft hissed, and stepped firmly on the woman’s shoulder just shy of the bullet wound, “Now! The name!”

“Moriarty!”

John’s head flew up from where he knelt admiring his daughter and keeping careful watch over her father.

“Oh, gods, he’s back,” John breathed in fear.

“John,” Mycroft spoke softly, heading over to him and leaving the dying woman where she lay, “Unwrap the baby. Press her close to Sherlock. They’re both dragons and they should respond to each other. Sherlock needs to transform back.”

“He isn’t conscious,” John replied.

“He will be when he smells his daughter. Press her close. Instinctively he should be trying to bond with her, they do that in dragon form by bathing the child with their tongue. If he were the mother the crying would do it, but paternal dragons respond to scent.”

John unwrapped his squalling child and pressed her shivering form close to Sherlock’s face. He shifted, his eyebrows lowering, moaned a bit and then opened his eyes. When he turned his head and saw his child he transformed immediately, his tongue flashing out to bathe the small child. He was too weak to rise, but John laid her across his lap and Sherlock managed to lift his head and lay it across his calves.

Lian stopped crying instantly, wriggling and making small chuffing noises as her father’s tongue gently cleaned her, his hot breath warming her chilled body. When Sherlock’s tongue slipped back into his mouth he re-wrapped the tiny infant and waited while Molly examined Sherlock’s wound.

“The swelling is going down. He’ll still need treatment. Where’s the antiseptic we brought for Lian’s cord?”

Lestrade scurried to fetch it and returned with the entire med kit. Molly set about cleaning the blistered flesh and Sherlock groaned in agony.

“John, get close to him. You and the baby,” Mycroft insisted, “Cuddle with him. He needs his mate and child.”

John moved down to Sherlock’s forepaws and slipped beneath one, resting his head on the other and pressing close with Lian sheltered between their two bodies. Sherlock was always hot to the touch, and the baby sighed at the warmth.

“What else can I do?” Lestrade asked.

“Baby formula,” John called, “She’s starved.”

“Right! I’ll get it,” Lestrade hurried away but soon returned looking frustrated, “I have no way to heat it. Sherlock’s been providing all the hot water.”

“Shit, she’ll have to drink it cold,” John sighed.

“No, she can’t,” Molly intervened, “That water is frigid, not to mention filled with bacteria that could kill her. She’ll have to go hungry a bit. Give her one of the dummies we packed.”

Lestrade provided it, his face drawn in distress.

“Lian?” Mycroft questioned Lestrade since he was the only one not busy at the moment.

“Chinese girl’s name for ‘Daughter of the Sun’. John picked it. Says we’re all going ‘round Sherlock, and we’ll do the same for his daughter.”

Mycroft snorted, “He isn’t wrong.”

“I’m godfather,” Lestrade said proudly, “Molly’s godmom.”

“Congratulations,” Mycroft smiled warmly.

“You… you did great back there. You could have been killed,” Lestrade mentioned.

“My niece was in danger. There was little choice.”

Lestrade nodded and Mycroft moved a step closer, “I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have tried to manipulate you the way I did. Is there… I’d like a second chance.”

“Yeah. Sure. I’d like that,” Lestrade flushed.

John watched Lian suckle on the dummy for a while before closing his eyes in exhaustion.

He awoke to Lian’s miserable whimpering. The child was limp and miserable, her face screwed up but too hungry to let out a proper cry. John’s heart was breaking for her. He scrambled up, determined to hike out of the cave and get her formula that way if needed, but found he was wasting his time. Lestrade was walking up with a bottle.

“Sherlock woke and made enough boiling water for us to get a safe bottle made. We had to wait for it to cool. Here.”

John popped the bottle into Lian’s mouth after testing it on his wrist and she suckled greedily.

“There’s my girl,” John cooed.

“She’s gorgeous,” Lestrade smiled, slipping an arm around John’s shoulders, “Come and sit down.”

“Sherlock?”

“Asleep. There aren’t any other Dragonologists in the area, not that I’d let one in at this point, so we got some supplies sent down instead of getting him pulled out. Mycroft says he’s better here with us anyway. Pria’s body is gone, too. Come and sit down.”

They sat propped against Sherlock’s back, mostly for warmth but also because neither wanted to be away from him. Molly was asleep in a curled up ball near Sherlock’s hips, the blankets mussed up beneath and around her. John leaned against Lestrade’s shoulder and the man wrapped an arm around him companionably.

“You’re gonna be a great Mummy,” Lestrade snickered.

“Shut it, you,” John laughed lightly.

Lian had drained the bottle dry and fallen instantly to sleep. John put her over his shoulder to wind her, waiting patiently as he’d read since it seemed to take ages. A smell reached him and he grimaced.

“Meconium, probably,” John sighed, “That first poo is a horror.”

“I’ll just leave you to it,” Lestrade smirked and took off in a hurry.

John chuckled and set about changing his first nappy.

[CHAPTER 30-34](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/108712.html)


	7. vincentmeoblinn | Dragon Blood Ch 30-34

Chapter 30: Quickie

John settled Lian into her bassinet at the foot of their bed and double-checked her swaddle for safety and warmth. Sherlock was stretched out on their bed in all his naked glory with a book in one hand and a bottle of lube in the other.

“Not in front of her,” John whispered.

“She’s asleep.”

“Living room.”

“Lestrade's on his way over.”

“Seen us before, and been with me.”

“Point,” Sherlock conceded and they slipped out of the room after turning the monitor on.

Their entire flat had been reinforced several times over with locks, alarms, and bars. It felt like a prison, but John wasn’t about to complain. It was this or move into Mycroft’s London home with him, and Sherlock had stated quite clearly he’d rather die. After a day in the cave for Sherlock to heal and a couple of weeks at home, Moriarty had apparently slipped back into the woodwork like the spider he was.

“You know, most couples don’t resort to the kamasutra for at least a couple of years.”

“Why should it be a last resort?” Sherlock asked flipping through the book, “I want to do this one.”

“It’s meant to spice up a dying sex life, not… that looks painful.”

“Not if I’m the one with my feet on your shoulders.”

“That looks fucking hot.”

“I thought you’d change your mind.”

“How do I… ah…?”

“Thrust?”

“Yeah.”

“I think it’s more a grinding motion.”

“Hm.”

“How about this one, then?”

“Son of a… can’t we just go have sex in a car or something?”

“We don’t own one.”

“I’m willing to pay for a rental.”

Sherlock snickered and John sat down beside him, “You’re trying to hard, love.”

“Am I? I want you to be satisfied.”

“I’m satisfied with _you_.”

John leaned forward and kissed his lover gently, moaning happily when he deepened the kiss without John having to push the issue. They were deep into a hungry snog when Lestrade came up the steps.

“Bloody hell, you two have got a bedroom, you know?”

“Piss off,” John muttered against Sherlock’s neck.

“There’s a baby in there,” Sherlock grunted as John gently bit one of his nipples.

“Mmm, I want to suck you off,” John groaned as he sank down to his knees and began worshiping Sherlock’s hard cock.

“Right, I’ll just be going for a walk then,” Lestrade sighed.

“Ohhhhhhh,” Sherlock sighed, sinking into the couch and spreading his legs.

John ran his tongue from base to tip, then around the head before dipping into the slit and sliding back down to suck first one and than the other testicle into his mouth. Sherlock was panting quite eagerly and John took advantage of his distraction to lubricate his fingers and slip one inside. He moaned at the feel of Sherlock’s tight heat around his finger and pumped it in and out, in mimicry of the motions he made as he bobbed his head on Sherlock’s long, thin cock.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, “If you keep that up…”

“Mmmm,” John said with disappointment, and popped off to continue stretching Sherlock without over stimulating him.

Once he had three fingers inside his panting lover he slicked up his cock and sat down on the couch. Sherlock blinked at him a moment and then scrambled over and sat in his lap facing outwards. John gripped his cock and held it steady as Sherlock sank down on him with a hiss.

“Mph, I’ll never get used to feeling this full,” Sherlock grunted, leaning back and letting John slowly begin to thrust up into him.

“Try having an egg in you.”

“Mph, maybe later,” Sherlock grunted.

“If you can still talk I’m not doing this right. The fuck is your…” John growled.

“Oh, gods!”

“There it is,” John grinned and began to thrust fast and hard at the angle that Sherlock needed, grunting with effort as the dragon writhed on his cock and made keeping him pleasured difficult, “Keep still.”

“C-coming!”

“Aw, fuck!” John shouted as Sherlock clamped down on his cock and came in spurts across his own torso.

John groaned and pushed up on his toes, angling to fuck Sherlock deeper than before. He wasn’t _quite_ grazing his prostate, but it was enough to make the man whine a bit.

“I’m going… to come… so deep… inside… that pretty… white… arse…” John gasped.

“Save your breath for fucking me, Captain,” Sherlock growled, “Either that or live up to your promise and _come already_.”

John came with his mouth open in a silent scream, his cock pulsing deep inside Sherlock’s body.

They sagged down on the couch, panting and gasping for breath.

“Gods I love fucking you,” John panted.

“Only the second time, you hardly have enough data to reach that conclusion.”

“Oh, I definitely do.”

“What about me fucking you?”

“That, too. Fantastic, the both of them. And frotting. And sucking you off… which I really wanted to do, by the way.”

“Later.”

“Promise?”

“If the baby doesn’t…”

They were interrupted by a wail through the monitor. Both men groaned, before staggering upright and quickly cleaning off and dressing. It had been difficult to find time together since… well since John’s pregnancy, truth be told. This was their first quickie in over a month.

“You get the bottle ready, I’ll change the diaper,” John sighed.

Sherlock grunted an acknowledgement and they headed off to their respective parental duties.

****

Chapter 31: Abducted

John loved to walk Lian. He pushed her around the block in the pram and showed her off to anyone who happened to glance in his direction. At a couple of months old, she was just starting to smile at people and there were no end to the people who cooed about how beautiful she was.

It was a particularly lovely day and John was thrilled to get out of the house while Sherlock worked on a case with Lestrade. They were at doing endless piles of research at the moment, and tempers were hot; especially when a crying baby was thrown into the mix. Cue a perfect moment to go for a walk and get some fresh air.

John was talking to an elderly couple about their grandkids when a strange, but beautiful woman walked up to him. For a moment he thought she was goth, what with her long flowing cape and plastic horns… until he realized they were _real_ horns and the cape was her wings!

“Oh, my Lady,” John stammered, giving her a courteous bow and carefully averting his eyes. He was fully aware of how thralls could be stolen by other dragons and the last thing he wanted was to be torn away from Sherlock and his daughter.

“Good day, thrall,” the dragonlady purred, “What a lovely day for a walk with your… daughter?”

“Yes,” John nodded and rattled off the answers to the usual questions, “Her name’s Lian, two months old, seven pounds.”

“What a lovely name. Daughter of the Sun?”

“Yes. I’m John, by the way.”

“Countess Irene Adler, Dragonlady,” Lady Adler stuck out her hand, palm down, and John lifted it for a kiss.

Pain exploded in the back of his head and everything went black.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade was just starting to get fed up with Sherlock- well, actually he’d been fed up for a while, but now he was mad enough to _tell_ him- when Sherlock suddenly gasped and jumped to his feet.

“Someone’s attacked John!” He blurted out, and sped out of the flat before Lestrade could question him further.

Lestrade tried to follow, but by the time he got downstairs Sherlock was nowhere in sight. Panicked and fully aware Lian had been with John, Lestrade phoned the station that told him they’d contact their patrol cars and have them start searching. Then he phoned Mycroft.

“I saw it on the CCTV’s, but it happened too fast to intercept. She knocked him unconscious with a blow to the back of the head. She took Lian and a van pulled up and took John. I have my people tracking the van now, but Countess Adler took to the sky.”

“Who took to the sky?”

“Countess Adler. Irene Adler. She’s a dragonlady.”

“Another dragon?”

“No, a dragonlady. They’re half-formed dragons, trapped between human and dragon form. It only happens to females born from eggs. Dragonlady Irene Adler is the Countess of Bohemia and a well-known actress and courtesan. She sells her breeding rights, but has never managed to become pregnant in the 200 years she’s been alive.”

“Two-hun… _two hundred years?!”_

“Didn’t you know dragons live extraordinarily long? The Queen is nearly four hundred, but that is long-lived even for dragons. It appears her goal was to get Lian. She has been desperate for a child.”

“Where is she?”

“Still looking, but I can give you the address to her home. It’s in Belgravia. Number 44 Eaton Square.”

Lestrade bolted for his car, which was parked around the corner, and took off with siren blazing. Lestrade arrived and pounded on the door; a woman, but not _the_ woman opened the door.

“Where is she?” Lestrade demanded, “Where’s my goddaughter?! Where the hell is Lian?!”

“I’ve no idea what you mean!”

Lestrade pulled out his warrant card, “Do you know now?”

“No! I’ve never met a Lian, this is Countess Irene Adler’s home!”

“Let me speak to her.”

“She isn’t in, and I wouldn’t with your attitude anyhow!” The woman slammed the door in Lestrade’s face and he shouted at it angrily for a moment before calling back into the station.

“Anything?”

“There’s a woman here to see you, sir, a dragonlady,” Donovan informed, “She’s got a baby with her. Might be Lian, but I can’t tell. She won’t let anyone near her.”

Lestrade relayed that information to Sherlock and got back in the car. He was driving along at a fair click when Sherlock shot into the window and transformed back to human.

“I can’t feel John. He may be unconscious or…” Sherlock didn’t finish and Lestrade didn’t ask.

They got to the Yard and Sherlock flew ahead of Lestrade up the stairwell. He took the elevator and tapped his feet the entire time, nearly leveling a PC as he bolted forward. He rounded the bend into his office and came face to face with a naked Sherlock having a naked stare down with a naked woman with wings and horns. It would have been sexy had the atmosphere not been murderous and a squalling baby- his goddaughter- not been in the dragonlady’s arms.

_ <I can’t get a handle on her. She’s a mystery.> _

_ What do you mean? She’s a dragonlady.  _

_ <Yes, but that’s all I know about her. I can’t  _ read _her. >_

Lestrade relayed the information Mycroft had given him about the woman in front of him and stepped slowly forward with the intention of taking Lian from her.

“You asked to see me,” Lestrade informed Countess Adler, “Here I am. I’d like to make sure Lian’s alright, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It isn’t, actually,” She replied, speaking over Lian’s shouting.

“Give me my daughter you lizard-brained twat!” Sherlock snarled.

Countess Alder tutted and shook a finger at him, “Such language in front of a child!”

Adler turned Lian over her shoulder and wrapped her wings around herself and the baby. Lian’s squalling settled and she mumbled and chortled on Adler’s shoulder as the dragonlady patted her back.

“What do you want?” Sherlock demanded to know.

“You’re clearly fertile,” Lady Adler stated, “I have had difficulty conceiving. I’d like you to breed me.”

“No,” Sherlock stated firmly.

“You don’t even what to consider it? I’m told I’m quite lovely.”

“Perhaps if you hadn’t abducted my child I’d be more inclined,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Abducted?” Lady Adler laughed, “I’ve just saved her life. Why do you think I’m here in Scotland Yard? The least you could do is offer me a favor.”

“Saved her from whom?” Sherlock demanded.

“Why, Moriarty, of course. He’d have killed her on sight or left her in the street for someone to _really_ kidnap, baby’s are too much trouble, you know. Now she’s safe with me.”

“Then I owe you my thanks, but nothing more. You will return my daughter to me _now_.”

“As you wish.”

Lady Adler stood and walked slowly across the room, placing Lian in Sherlock’s outstretched arms. Sherlock stepped behind Lestrade, using him as a shield while he checked his child or injuries. Lady Adler returned to Lestrade’s desk chair and sat down as smoothly as silk.

“I’ve half a mind to arrest you for kidnapping and child endangerment!” Lestrade snapped.

“You couldn’t if you tried,” Lady Adler replied, “I’m _royalty_. Dragons don’t get arrested.”

“There _are_ laws. Child endangerment is one I can make apply to you.”

“Shouldn’t you be consulting your superiors before threatening a member of the royal family?”

“Sherlock’s a dragon too, you know,” Lestrade replied, though his tone was respectful now.

“An outcast, sadly. Moriarty is a well-known felon despite being a dragon, yet Sherlock would be arrested for loitering before Jim Moriarty was arrested for murder. Such is the reason we are called the privileged class.”

“I doubt it. He’s got a brother in the government, too.”

“Ah, yes, how is Mycroft?”

Lestrade frowned rather than reply.

“Let’s be frank,” Lady Adler stated firmly, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs provocatively, “Sherlock’s family hasn’t produced a dragon heir in generations, and they’re the lowest level of upper class- despite Mycroft’s personal achievements. That they produced a _Chinese_ dragon instead of an English one, and that their dragon heir is a notable drug addict and rebel, has fueled no small amount of their shame.”

“You forgot war hero and private detective,” Sherlock snipped.

“War hero indeed! Your entire platoon dead, yet you and your thrall survive? A bit convenient don’t you think?”

Sherlock started forward in a rage, but Lestrade carefully blocked him, “Easy, Sherlock, let’s get Lian home and start looking for John.”

“Why look when she _knows_ where he is?”

“I don’t, actually,” Lady Adler informed, “However, I will be getting the information on _this_ phone.”

Lestrade stepped forward and snatched the mobile from her hand, “It’s locked.”

“I’m the only one able to unlock it,” Lady Adler smiled, “Consider it insurance against violence done to me. The password changes with every use. Moriarty is the only one who knows what it will be next. He has my thrall. He will tell her what the password is and I will type it in. Then you will have the information. Figure out his riddles in time and you win a prize. Don’t, and your thrall will go through withdrawal due to your absence. Eventually Moriarty will take him as his own. Then he’ll come after Lestrade. Then Molly. Then any other person you happen to enthrall for the rest of your life.”

“Why are you doing this? What does he want with John?”

“A chance,” Lady Adler replied without a smile, “A chance for what you have. You see: he wants what I want.”

“Breeding rights with me?” Sherlock scoffed.

“In a matter of speaking. You’re becoming more interesting to him by the second, you know. You’re clever, and brainy is the new sexy.”

“My dear Countess,” Sherlock growled, “You have _no idea_ how clever I am.”

****

Chapter 32: Dragon Blood

John woke up in a cold, dark, damp place. His wrists were in cuffs and the chain extended somewhere above him. He felt around, finding two tile walls, a tile floor, and a drain. He followed the chain and found it attached to pipes that were behind a break in the tile wall; it was long enough to stand so he felt upwards and found the lever for the water and the showerhead.

_ Why am I chained up in what feels like a public shower? _ John wondered as he wandered out as far as the chain could take him and encountered nothing besides a second shower. John crouched down near his chain, gathering it up for use as a weapon, but his mouth felt like cotton and tasted foul. Finally he tried the far tap, but, but nothing came out of it. He tried the tap he was chained to and water trickled out slowly. John drank it greedily, but was immediately woozy. He sagged to the ground, his head spinning and his empty stomach lurching. The tap was still on and it dripped on his leg, but he didn’t have the energy to care.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

“I know this place. We looked at it together, Lestrade,” Sherlock informed him, holding up the phone to show a picture of a fireplace in an empty room.

“We looked at lots of places, Sherlock. We were flat-hunting for me.”

“Yes, but this one was very close to home.”

They arrived at 221C Baker Street with little fuss, ignoring Mrs. Hudson’s yammering and leaving baby Lian in her care.

_ <John? John, can you hear me?> _

“I can’t find him with our mental connection,” Sherlock groused, “There’s something blocking it. I can feel him to a certain extent, but everything’s sort of… fuzzy. Like he’s been drugged.”

Sherlock knelt down beside the shoes on the floor of 221C. Lestrade, Donovan, and Irene were gathered behind him curiously. Just as Sherlock was about to pick it up Irene’s phone rang, startling Sherlock. She answered it, but handed it immediately to Sherlock.

“ _Hello, sexy,”_ A tearful woman’s voice whimpered into Sherlock’s ear…

XXXXXXXXXXXX

By the time John’s regained consciousness he was starting to feel achy and had a throbbing headache to distract him from the emptiness in his stomach. His only comfort was the water dripping down so conveniently close and he kept drinking from it in between sleeping deeply.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

“Twelve hours,” Lestrade sulked, “Why twelve hours? To do what? Why give you a case from your childhood? What _for_?”

“To keep John waiting while keeping me interested. To put him into withdrawal, and distract me from that fact at the same time. John isn’t just any thrall, he’s my mate; he needs more constant contact than you and Molly do. John can’t be away from me for too long or he’ll be ill from it. You’re moving out of the flat and Molly and I no more than share office space. You see the difference?”

“Yeah, sure, but _why_?”

“He wants something. He wants to force my hand. He knows John is the key to that, but _why_? Surely Lian was better leverage than John.”

“Perhaps John’s a symbol,” Irene interrupted softly.

“A symbol of what?” Sherlock demanded.

“Of what he wants.”

“What _does_ he want? And what point is your being here? He could contact me any number of ways, why through you?” Sherlock snapped, standing up from his analysis of the dirt beneath the shoes to analyze Irene.

“Perhaps I’m a symbol as well.”

“Of what?”

“Of what you’ll become if you pass his final test.”

“What, half dragon? That isn’t possible. What you have is a birth defect.”

Irene Adler was silent and Sherlock narrowed his eyes in frustration. He still couldn’t read her. It was appalling.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

John groaned. He smelled something. It took him a moment to realize it was himself. He’d soiled himself. Disgusted, John staggered upright as best he could and stripped off his bottoms, flinging them away. He stood beneath the water and washed himself as best he could with his head still spinning. Then he let the water run a bit to get the funk down the drain before collapsing in a heap again.

XXXXXXXXXXX

“My gods, that poor woman,” Lestrade breathed, “All those people. Sherlock, how can you just be calm about this?”

“Will panicking help John or the next victim?” Sherlock asked.

“No.”

“Will it help the people who died?”

“No, okay, I see your point, but…”

“Then I shall try to keep a level head. I suggest you do the same,” Sherlock snarked.

“You really think there will be another victim? He just blew up a dozen people and a building just because some old lady tried to describe him!” Lestrade ranted helplessly.

“There will be more. There will be more and more until John goes into withdrawal.”

“Then why the _hell_ aren’t we looking for him!”

“Because he’s only part of the puzzle and you can’t figure out the middle until you’ve got the ends and corners,” Sherlock replied, staring hard at Irene Adler.

Countess Adler smiled warmly and bounced Lian on her knee.

“I love children. I’ve always wanted to be a mother,” Irene stated.

“You were one. There’s an incision on your stomach. Cesarean section,” Sherlock pointed out, “Yet there’s no record. Even an outcast like me made front pages when I sired a child. Dragon blood is everything.”

“You’re right about that,” Irene sighed sadly.

“Dragon blood? That’s what this is about? Moriarty _is_ a dragon. He has no need of dragon blood. Dragon blood isn’t even _useful._ ”

“So the royal family would have you believe.”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

John’s skin itched. It itched and it felt like bugs were crawling beneath it. John scratched until he felt something damp and realized that it was his own blood. It took opening up two more spots on his legs before he realized what he was feeling.

Headache. Nausea. Body aches. Itching and desensitization to pain. Indifference to own health/life. John was going through thrall withdrawal.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

“Where is he? What does he _want?!”_ Sherlock snarled, pacing the room, “I can _feel_ John. He’s in pain. He’s in _agony_ , but he’s getting farther and farther from me. His thrall will break soon and if he isn’t taken by another dragon he’ll go mad and kill himself!”

“There’s still no call?” Lestrade asked of Irene for the tenth time.

“None, sorry,” Irene replied, burping Lian and carrying her into Sherlock and John’s room to place her in the basinet.

Sherlock kept her carefully in sight, but didn’t try to stop her handling Lian. In fact he watched that part carefully. She was eager to hold Lian, but she hadn’t tried to keep her. Why? She could have simply vanished into Buckingham palace and the royal family would have been happy to allow an English dragon to raise a dragon baby, even if she had a good chance of showing her Chinese ancestry there was still a hope she would prove to carry more English traits.

“I miss John,” Sherlock informed her when she walked in.

“I know. You keep talking aloud to him despite the fact he isn’t here and likely can’t hear you through your mental connection. It must be awful.”

“What about your thrall?” Lestrade asked, “You haven’t had contact with her in the same amount of time. What if her messages aren’t transmitting?”

“She’s been her thrall a century,” Sherlock sighed, “She won’t be feeling any pain for many more days. The older the dragon the more powerful their abilities, and the longer they have a thrall the more powerful their thrall is.”

Irene nodded agreement.

“Your thrall is over a century old? Okay, next question, is she dead?” Lestrade scoffed.

“She’s barely aged,” Irene replied, “Why do you think your dear owner keeps trying to pair you two up with other thralls? Mycroft will die long before you, detective. I’d suggest you take the opportunity to move in with him that he suggested to you. You will have precious little time.”

Lestrade looked up and saw his own devastated look was not mirrored in Sherlock’s face.

“He’s your _brother_! How can you be so calm about this?”

“We don’t get on,” Sherlock shrugged.

Lestrade snarled in outrage and stormed off.

“Thank you,” Sherlock stated to Irene, “That was far easier than thinking up an original insult that he hasn’t already built up armor against.”

“You wanted him gone?” Irene asked.

“Yes, and so did you. So. James Moriarty. He wasn’t just waiting for withdrawal to set in, and he’s got no real reason to take my thrall. He didn’t want the Bruce-Partington Plans and he sacrificed all those nicely arranged crimes just to keep me busy- tipping his hand as to his new activities since our last meeting. Why?”

“How should I know, I’m here with you?”

“You’re a symbol, you said. You mentioned that you were what I am to become. What, exactly, am I to become?”

“Broken and used.”

“Explain.”

“You aren’t the only one in love with a thrall, you know. Most of us fall for them eventually. It’s almost as if by design, wouldn’t you think? Intelligent design?”

“Moriarty has a religious cult? Oh, gods, here I thought this was original.”

“Hardly, I’m just being a bit poetic,” Irene smiled sadly, “Dragon blood, Mr. Holmes. It’s all about dragon blood. You have it. Your daughter has it- well, we assume so, but really without quite a lot of lab equipment you can’t tell until they reach puberty and transform for the first time.”

“What does my daughter have to do with this?” Sherlock snarled.

“Nothing. At least… not that child.”

“Moriarty wants me to have a child with… his thrall? In exchange for John’s safe return? Why?”

“Why indeed.”

“This is it, isn’t it? The final problem? Moriarty wants me to sire a dragon child with his heir because… he isn’t able or willing to do so himself? And you aren’t capable of having another child. What happened to your first?”

“Now, now, Mr. Holmes,” Irene purred, “What’s the fun in me telling you? _Think!_ Your thrall’s life depends on it.”

** Notes: **

(Points gun at Muse)

Vinny: Tell them you promise!  
Navi: Oh gods, I promise! I won’t kill Sherlock & John’s baby! Please don’t hurt me!  
Vinny: Fuck yeah, you promise. Bitch.  
Navi: Somebody help me! Ze’s fucking crazy!  
Vinny: Get back in the bottle! 

(thwunk)

****

Chapter 33: Ascend

TRIGGER WARNING: There is talk about a baby dying in the next few chapters; I’m sorry, but it’s plot relevant. If this is a trigger for you, don’t read.

“Dragon blood. _Dragon blood_. There’s nothing _special_ about dragon blood!” Sherlock snarled into the microscope as he examined his own blood for the third time.

“Is there anything I can do? Anything you need?” Molly asked, running her hand over his back.

Sherlock groaned and leaned into Molly’s touch. After John she was his second longest thrall… well… someone actually _had_ been with him longer than John, but he couldn’t go to _him_.

“Thank you, John.”

“Molly.”

“Thank you, Molly. I do need something from you.”

“What?”

“I need you to take care of Lian if something goes wrong. She goes to you. I want her raised by you if she can’t be raised by John and I.”

“Yeah. Sure. But you’re not dying. You can’t. I wouldn’t live long enough to take care of her.”

“You would if you were near Lian. You would instinctively protect her because she’s my child. A thrall can be passed down to their offspring.”

“Why me?”

“Because you aren’t _male._ ”

“Oh.”

“Lestrade is on his way over with Lian and some supplies. She will not leave your presence- even for a second- for the foreseeable future. She goes with you everywhere, even to the loo. I’ll talk to your boss.”

“O-okay,” Molly squeaked.

Once Lian was in the lab Sherlock drew a small bit of blood from the shrieking child and then comforted her gently, pressing kisses to his daughter’s lovely face. It broke his heart to see John’s eyes reflected from her face with tears in them. He held her until she fell back to sleep and then slipped her into Molly’s arms with a feeling of finality.

“My beautiful baby girl,” Sherlock whispered, “I love you so much.”

Then he sent Molly home with her and sat down at the largest and most expensive machine in the lab.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock felt sick as he turned to Irene Adler after hours of research and a very expensive DNA scan. He stood up and walked across to her, taking her hand gently and kissing the back of it.

“My Lady Irene Ashkenazic,” Sherlock spoke softly and watched as a tear slid down her cheek, “What was your son’s name?”

“He didn’t live long enough to be named, but I always thought Eli was appropriate, don’t you?”

Sherlock gently slipped the phone from Irene’s hand and typed Eli into the phone’s lock code. A picture appeared on the screen that made Sherlock want to scream with frustration.

“Back to the beginning, then,” Sherlock snarled, and bolted for the door.

“Wait!” Irene shouted.

Sherlock paused and looked back.

“Don’t do it. Don’t give him what he wants,” Irene pleaded, more tears slipping from her eyes, “No thrall is worth the price you will pay.”

****

Eli means "ascend" or "uplifted."

****

Chapter 34: Love is a Weakness

TRIGGER WARNING: References to Holocaust, Holocaust victims, Experimentation, Racism, and death of children.

Sherlock stepped into the darkened pool with his gun drawn and his head pounding. John’s thrall was broken and he felt the ache like a physical pain. If Moriarty hadn’t enthralled him already then John was probably somewhere either dead or attempting to take his own life.

“Where are you Moriarty? Or should I call you Mengele?”

“Moriarty, please,” The man stated as he stepped out from the other side of the pool, “My grandfather would turn over in his grave. To think my family polluted their gene pool with _Irish_ descendents.”

“He didn’t seem to have a problem with your mother marrying an Irishman.”

“Oh, he had a problem with it, but it wasn’t solved as easily as he’d hoped. You see, killing my mother and father in front of me when I was six cured my annoying sweet little boy behavior, but it _really_ didn’t cleanse my blood the way he’d hoped.”

“So he used the purest blood he could think of: dragon blood. What better source than the Jewish people, who don’t worship their dragons as the false idols that others do, which means they weren’t hidden during the war. Oh, and look an entire concentration camp full of them to experiment on!” Sherlock spat in disgust.

“Well, his morals were decidedly lacking,” Moriarty admitted calmly, “But you can’t fault his logic.”

“So he sires a child with a dragonlady. With Irene Ashkenazic, to be specific, who later changes her name to Adler to hide her Jewish heritage and marries a count in Bohemia- still keeping her last name of Adler to make sure _no one_ confuses her with a Hebrew woman. That child he then pummels with radiation before separating the chromosomes that make a dragon what it is from the DNA strand of your uncle’s blood and _viola_! Instant artificially created dragon.”

“Just so,” Moriarty smirked, “Come now, Sherlock, give him some credit. Who would have thought being a dragon is actually a chromosomal mutation instead of a genetic inheritance? Like Downs Syndrome only magically delicious!”

“He was brilliant, I’ll give him that, and resourceful for a man in his time, but he was also mad as a hatter, and you’ve gone just as bad,” Sherlock replied.

“Oh, but being bad is so very fun, Sherlock, you should try it some time… of course you never will. That’s what’s so dreadfully dull about you. You’re on the side of the angels. Still… your DNA will be useful and you’ve already proven yourself fertile.”

“You want your thrall to be a dragon like you so you want me to sire a child with him that you can then _sacrifice_. Why? He’ll live for ages because of his connection to you. What do you gain by making him a dragon?”

Moriarty paused to consider it, “Mmm, a slave with wings and cool dragon abilities- that ones my favorite- the ability to prove my grandfather’s work is accurate, a chance to sell those findings to countries that want to make their soldiers more powerful aaaaaand… kinky dragon sex.”

Sherlock pointedly ignored that last one, “And the experiment only works if you reproduce naturally, as it requires the DNA of both the subject _and_ a dragon on a mitochondrial level and dragons have failed to reproduce under laboratory conditions: even via cloning.”

“Well of course. The cloning process itself destroys the dragon fluke. It eliminates ‘unhealthy’ code. Since dragons have 26 pairs of chromosomes instead of 23, they were simply trimmed off the ends! No dragons!” Moriarty waved his hands in the air.

“The ‘fluke’ as you call it really isn’t one, though, is it?” Sherlock asked, “More like a genetic advantage. Darwin’s ultimate proof. A dragon can pass his or her trait on, something someone with Down’s Syndrome doesn’t do.”

“Which makes it both a genetic trait and a mutation. Such is the process of evolution,” Moriarty nodded enthusiastically, “Opposable thumbs! Perfect blood!”

“Except everyone thinks it isn’t working correctly, because dragons are rare and hardly reproduce. Dragons are born with low or even non-existent sex drives. The average dragon has two children in a three hundred year lifespan. Everyone thinks this is a problem, but it’s not, because if dragons reproduced like humans and lived for _that long_ there would be no planet left. We’d be shoulder to shoulder like in _The Mark of Gideon.”_

_ “ _ Oh, I love Star Trek, don’t you?”

“There’s just one thing I don’t understand,” Sherlock replied.

“That would be?”

“Why break John’s thrall?”

“Why to make you desperate, of course,” Moriarty replied.

“It hasn’t worked,” Sherlock countered.

“Oh, but you haven’t _seen_ him yet,” Moriarty snapped his fingers and a cage was lowered down from the ceiling.

John was in it, lying still and silent, simply staring up at the world around him. He had a long tube in his hand. The cage was slowly being lowered into the deeper end of the pool.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked.

“Pressure, Sherlock. You see, Johnny boy is _my_ thrall now, and unlike the Queen I have no problem using hypnosis on him. So… he will continue to breathe through that tube until… I. Say. So. At which point you will watch him drown.”

“I breed your thrall or you kill mine… except he isn’t mine anymore. I won’t feel his pain or his death. You will.”

“You won’t need to. You love him.”

“He’s just a thrall,” Sherlock scoffed, “He means nothing to me, certainly less than my children- unborn or otherwise.”

A speaker crackled above them and a recording began to play: “ _Oh, John, my love... Gods I love it when you talk like that… Hello lover… Admit it, you love me.”_

“For the record, I’ve removed the recording device already,” Sherlock sighed.

“I’m aware, but you can’t remove your heart so easily!” Moriarty sing-songed, “Now then… give me what I want or watch your heart drown.”

[CHAPTER 35-39](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/108805.html)


	8. vincentmeoblinn | Dragon Blood Ch 35-39

Chapter 35: Possessed

“I could shoot you right now, let my _non-thrall_ drown, and move on with my life. After all, I have his daughter, what more do I need?” Sherlock stated.

“ _Mmmm_ , you could, and then you would get to cherish the look of _surprise_ on my face,” Moriarty mimed this part, “Because I’d be surprised, Sherlock, I really would.”

The cage stopped moving with a grinding whir and Sherlock could see that John was completely submerged, one hand pinching his nose closed and the other holding the tube up to his mouth while his body bobbed up and down and side to side in the coffin-shaped cage. Sherlock could actually hear him breathing. Only Moriarty’s command to continue to breathe through the tube kept John alive. If Moriarty died the shock of losing two dragon owners in so short a time would likely kill him before the water did. His only chance of survival was if Moriarty handed him over on a silver platter.

“You have discounted me multiple times, Moriarty,” Sherlock replied calmly, “You call yourself a consulting criminal? I’ve been building myself up as a consulting detective.”

“Oh, have you now? I hadn’t noticed,” Moriarty mocked, “You’ve made so few waves on my business. Really, you’re more an annoying gnat than anything else. Although, you _have_ taught me to tighten up my loose ends, I’ll give you that. Thank you for reminding me that I can’t just let it _all_ hang out, and for the recent opportunity to study your methods.”

Sherlock ignored Moriarty’s mad giggling, “I can’t help but wonder what it would have been like if we had met on different terms. If you considered me the equal that I clearly am.”

“Oh, please. You solved a few of my easier tricks when I _pointed them out to you._ That’s like having the magician tell you it’s fake, invite you to inspect his equipment, and feeling superior when you figure out how it’s done,” Moriarty sneered.

“You really are utterly cold and unfeeling, aren’t you? I can’t help but wonder if your damaged upbringing caused you to be so, or if the procedure that gave you dragon abilities is to blame. Do you even feel your bonded at all?”

“What are you talking about,” Moriarty demanded, his smile vanishing.

“Your bonded thrall? The one who has suspiciously shut down communications with you? Did you forget I know who he is? What he looks like? I don’t have to know your magic trick is a sham, I’ve already seen it from behind the scenes. Colonel Sebastian Moran, recently dishonorably discharged for attacking a _dragon_ , only protected from prosecution of said crime by his _dragon owner_ and given leniency because he is a _thrall_ and therefore not responsible for his actions. Have you any idea how _easy_ it was for me to have him picked up from his favorite gambling hall? Bloody hell, I didn’t even have to track him down. Mycroft’s been watching him without my even having to ask.”

“You made no contacts. I’ve been monitoring your phone and all other means of communication,” Moriarty smirked, “Your pride kept you from contacting your brother.”

“You assume I need a phone to do so. I transformed late in life, later than most dragons. I was alone, frightened, and utterly unloved- just like you- except for one person. My brother.”

Moriarty’s face changed and Sebastian Moran stepped into the room behind Sherlock. He had a semtech vest strapped to his chest, an exact duplicate of the vests Moriarty had forced frightened men and women, _who he had enthralled_ , to wear for his sick game. Sherlock turned slightly to the side and raised the gun to point at Moran’s chest.

“Five minutes, Moriarty. That’s the difficulty with having so many thralls,” Sherlock stated with a heavy sigh, “A disturbing problem I encountered when I attempted to add Miss Morstan to my ranks. Once you pass your own personal threshold of mental flexibility well… you just can’t keep track of them _all._ So if one goes missing, even your _most important one,_ it is an easy occurrence. Take you for example. You have literally _thousands_ of thralls. Your organization is made up of them; all greedy for you and addicted to your presence, literally needing it to survive. Well, you can’t spend every waking moment shaking hands with them, can you? So many die, and you don’t even feel it anymore, but _this one_. Ohhhh, this one is _important_ , isn’t he? Because for all of your wicked plans and evil devices you didn’t just impregnate him yourself and kill off your own child. Would it have broken his heart? Has he begged you for a baby? One with your eyes and his hair? Does it frighten you to love him? Do you see it as a weakness? I know I do, I’m certain Irene Adler does, and yet here we stand. I am willing to _kill_ for my love. Are you willing to let him die?”

“You evidently don’t know me,” Moriarty replied, but his tone had dropped the playful banter.

“On the contrary, I think it’s fairly evident that I do. Four minutes.”

“All that I have to say has already crossed your mind,” Moriarty stated, his anger showing his realization of how much he had underestimated Sherlock.

“Quite possibly, and my answers have already crossed yours,” Sherlock acknowledged.

“You stand fast?”

“Absolutely.”

“It has been an intellectual treat to me to see the way in which you have grappled with this affair, and I say, unaffectedly, that it would be a grief to me to be forced to take any extreme measure. You smile, sir, but I assure you it really would. You stand in the way not merely of an individual, but of a mighty organization, the full extent of which you, with all your cleverness, have not been able to realize. You must stand clear Mr. Holmes, or be trodden underfoot.”

“Danger is a part of my trade,” Sherlock replied.

“This is not danger, it is inevitable destruction.”

“You have a suggestion to make?”

“You must drop it Mr. Holmes,” Moriarty replied insistently, his face swaying about like a snake seeking a chance to strike, “You really must, you know.”

“Three minutes.”

Moriarty reached into his pocket and pulled out a pad and paper, upon which he wrote a short note. He pocketed the tablet and smiled softly at Sherlock. The cage began to rise up from the water and the pulley stopped at the top where the pools score/announcement board would normally hang. John unlatched his cage and climbed out onto the grid work above the pool, using the small service walk to get to a ladder and climb down. He walked calmly across the pool, his face a complete blank, and stood beside Moriarty as though he weren’t wearing a sodden pair of jeans and checked shirt. His shoes were missing.

“We bring them forward, let them pass each other, and repossess our own,” Moriarty stated succinctly.

“I don’t think so. You are waiting for a moment of vulnerability. We leave with our own. I will repossess him on my own time.”

Moriarty’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded acceptance. John walked forward and Moran did the same. They passed each other and Sherlock took a firm grip on John’s arm, taking a moment to secure him in handcuffs. Moriarty used his belt to secure Moran’s arms after stripping the bomb off of him. A look passed between Sherlock and Moriarty. A promise. Then they parted ways.

Sherlock got all the way down to the waiting police cars and shoved John into the back of Lestrade’s. Moriarty’s men waited nearby, eyeing each other up. No one took up arms or attempted to intervene. This was a matter between dragons.

“Is he okay?” Lestrade asked, glancing back at John.

“No,” Sherlock replied, “Drive. Now.”

As they pulled away from the pool where Carl Powers had once died, John began to scream and thrash in the back of the panda car. He twisted himself about and tried to kick out the windows. Only Sherlock’s calm command to keep driving stopped Lestrade from pulling over instantly.

****

Chapter 36: Reunited

John had never paid too much attention to the part of his mind that belonged to Sherlock, but he had always been aware that it existed. It felt like a little piece of the very back of his brain was closed off to him. Sometimes he felt niggles of emotions through it, often he heard Sherlock speak from that direction as though he were whispering directly behind him, very rarely did he forget that spot was there. Now he was aware of it in a way that was acutely traumatic, because John could feel its _absence._

Sherlock was gone. Gone from his mind. Gone from his body. Gone from his soul. John’s mind had a gaping fissure in it reminiscent of a bullet wound and (he imagined) just as painful. John’s physical pain was nothing to his mental anguish at finding himself so utterly and completely alone.

So he did the only thing that made any sense. He stood up and wrapped the chain that was linked to the wall twice around his neck. He would have dropped to the floor to hang himself had the lights not suddenly flickered on. John swore. After so many days of complete darkness the light was painful, and he abandoned his attempts to kill himself in order to rub at his stinging eyes. He blinked through the agony and blearily glared up at the person responsible for his demise, determined he should tell them off before killing himself.

A dragon walked into the room. Large and formidable, it loomed above his head and seemed to shake with malicious laughter. John thought one thing, and one thing only; he could have peace again if this dragon would take him as a thrall. John unwound the chain from his neck and dropped to his knees. He held his hands up, whimpering, like a child waiting to be scooped up by their parent.

“Please… please…”

Pale swirling eyes met his and John stared into them, unblinking until tears ran down his cheeks from the dryness, and finally sagged in relief as a new consciousness flooded his mind and attempted to fill in that cavernous hole inside of him. John wrapped both arms around the dragon’s huge forepaw and sobbed against it, petting the scales and as if he could physically cling to the mind that had entered his own. He heard more laughter from the dragon, heard it echo in a high falsetto in his mind, and shivered in apprehension.

His life would never be the same.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John followed orders. He obeyed without question or thought. His life was a meaningless, empty expanse of perpetual commands. He had no emotions. He had no opinions. He had no persuasions. He had no desire. He had no hope. If he were told to stop breathing he would, and existence would end, and it was only due to reflex that he would even struggle as the water flooded his lungs.

Cold. John could feel cold. That was interesting, especially since he felt so little else. Then he felt warmth. Hands. There were hands touching him and they weren’t his Master’s hands. Then he was moving. Farther away. Farther from the presence in his mind that was already weaker than he was used to. John waited for an order. For a reason to move or respond in any way.

** Kill him. **

John fought. He kicked and he screamed and he _tried_ to carry out his order, but it wasn’t possible with his wrists cuffed and a grate separating him from the person he needed to kill. When the obstacle was removed he was still in no position to get to his prey, but he fought tooth and nail.

John’s eyes hurt. He could feel pain, then, too. They hurt because they were being forced open with only occasional eye drops to sooth the pain from dryness. He could hear his own voice screaming obscenities until it was raw. He could hear the threats, the promises, which his Master ordered him to utter. Slowly… dimly… he began to hate those words. Slowly… gradually… he began to fight them. Slowly… agonizingly… he suppressed them and his failing limbs. Quickly… urgently… he felt his mind coming back to himself in a painful rush. Quickly… desperately… he was begging for forgiveness. Suddenly… happily… he was held in warm accepting arms and rocked gently and lovingly.

“Sherlock. Oh, gods, Sherlock. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want him. I didn’t want… please… oh, gods, Sherlock don’t ever leave me again. Please don’t ever leave me again!”

“Never again, John.”

“I was so alone!”

“Never again, my love. Never again.”

****

Chapter 37: Recuperation

“Should we go?” Lestrade asked as he watched the stare-down between John and Sherlock finally break.

Sherlock was straddling John on the floor of 221B, where he’d had him pinned for some time, and rocking the broken man back and forth. John was a wreck. He was sobbing and shaking. His lips were chapped, his skin pallid, and he stank of chlorine and other less charming things. It was still only half as horrifying as the sound of his spewing out hatred towards Sherlock a moment ago. Lestrade had never noticed much in the way of Sherlock’s emotions feeding through to him, but he felt them now. He had felt Sherlock’s heart breaking, and now he felt the hope and relief of having _his_ John back with him.

Molly looked up at Lestrade in concern when neither of them got an answer to his question. She capped the eye drops she’d been administering to John and slowly stood. Lestrade did as well; he wasn’t pinning John’s arms down anymore, so there was no reason for him to keep kneeling behind him. Lestrade nodded towards the door and Molly nodded, but Sherlock’s choked voice called them back.

“Don’t go. He’s a mess. I need your help. I don’t think he’s eaten the entire time he was gone, and I know he wasn’t bathed.”

“I’ll run a bath,” Molly replied, her tone relieved to be having some sort of use.

“I’ll get a kettle on and some soup on the stove.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock gingerly scooped his sobbing lover up off the floor and carried him into the bathroom. Molly helped Sherlock strip the soaking wet clothing off of him and they lowered him into the hot bath. John’s hiccupping sobs lessened as he began to feel more human again, and he looked up at Sherlock and Molly with the feeling he’d never seen them before.

“Something wrong?” Sherlock asked as he soaped up a flannel and began to scrub him.

“I don’t deserve you. I just _let_ him…”

“Shut up,” Sherlock replied firmly.

“I feel like I’ve been raped,” John replied.

“Were you?” Molly asked in concern.

“Not sexually, no, but I still feel… _filthy_. Filthy and used. Like I need tilt my head to the side, stick a funnel in my ear, pour bleach into it, and wait for it to eat its way out the other ear.”

“I’d advise against it,” Sherlcok replied.

“Yeah,” Molly agreed, making a face, “Maybe a glass of water?”

“That’d be lovely, thanks,” John replied, leaning into Sherlock’s scrubbing, “Scrub harder _here_.”

John indicated a place Moriarty had touched his arm and Sherlock scubbed it raw before moving onto the rest of his arm.

“You have some abrasions. I’ll work on healing them once you’re clean. Then we’re going to need to re-bond for at least a day. I’ll keep Molly and Lestrade here to help with Lian and…”

“Gods, Lian! Is she okay? My gods, I didn’t even ask.”

“Fine! She’s fine. She’s been with either Molly or myself the entire time. Bad news, though: Molly needs a spouse. She wants a baby now and I’m unwilling to sire one with her.”

“Well, don’t look at me!” John scoffed, “I’ve my hands full with you!”

Sherlock smiled and pressed a kiss to John’s freshly scrubbed forehead before pulling the stopper from the tub to drain and re-fill it again. Once the tub was once more filled with clean water Sherlock climbed in behind John and held him gently while Lestrade spoon fed him soup and Molly brought in Lian to see her Mummy was safe and sound. Molly stripped the baby down and laid her on John’s chest to bond with him as well.

“Oh, my beautiful girl,” John whispered, pressing kisses to her curly hair, “I missed you so much. I was so afraid I’d never see you again.”

Lian raised her wobbly head and smiled at John, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the bath she was half submerged in. She usually hated the water, but she was so glad to see John she made no protest.

“The water’s not too hot for her?” John worried.

“Not hot enough to burn, but she shouldn’t stay in too long,” Molly replied, “They don’t regulate their own body temperatures too well at that age.”

“Eat,” Lestrade pushed, and John took another bite around the bulge in his throat.

A clatter at the doorway had Lestrade scrambling to check for threats, but it was only Mycroft who walked in with a tense look on his face.

“All is well, I see,” Mycroft stated, his face contorted, “You could have told me.”

“I could have,” Sherlock shrugged.

“Why _don’t_ you to get on?” John asked in confusion, “If he’s your thrall, shouldn’t you?”

There was a moment of stunned silence and then Lestrade pointed at Mycroft, “ _He’s_ your thrall? He’s your _thrall_?!”

“Of course he is, you don’t think I’d let you date someone who wasn’t,” Sherlock scoffed.

“How? When? _Why?_ ” Lestrade spat out.

“The usual way, when he first transformed, because he was _scared_ ,” Mycroft answered with a sneer.

“And there,” Sherlock stated, “Is the answer to _your_ question, John. Mycroft and I don’t get on because we never have. He was an accident. I never meant to enthrall him.”

“Yet here I am,” Mycroft frowned, “Unable to stop caring, unable to stay away, and constantly being neglected and pushed away by you.”

“I found you Lestrade, didn’t I? And you get more freedom than all of my thralls combined.”

“Freedom, yes, but not what I really _need_ from you, Sherlock.”

“I’m not going to let you control my life, Mycroft. Not any more than you’re going to let me interfere in yours. By the way, Moriarty is aware that you’re my thrall. The Queen will hear of it soon.”

“This will have repercussions,” Mycroft frowned, “I thought you were going to keep this a secret for me.”

“I wanted to, but he forced my hand; your intervention was obvious. I don’t, however, think you’ll be losing your position.”

“An agent of the highest level of secrecy in the government a thrall? And to a dragon outcast? Don’t be a fool, Sherlock. They can’t keep me now they know; I’m a security risk!” Mycroft looked miserable, “All my hard work. Pulling myself up by our family’s barely-existent name. Proving my worth to them. Gone!”

“No, I really don’t think so,” Sherlock hummed, “Not if a certain dragonlady has anything to say about it.”

“That dragonlady who attacked me?” John wondered, “Is she a threat?”

“No, no… not a threat,” Sherlock replied, “Although… she will be needing some protection now she’s failed Moriarty.”

“How will she get that?” Lestrade asked, glancing at Mycroft.

“I’m not going to provide it, she’s hardly my problem,” Mycroft scoffed.

“No. She’s mine,” Sherlock replied, “but problem isn’t the word I’d use.”

“Oh? A countess dragonlady with a penchant for selling her body and an enemy like Moriarty? What would you call her besides a problem?” Mycroft asked with a raised eyebrow.

“An ally,” Sherlock smirked.

****

Chapter 38: Time to Hate Me

WARNING: ANGST ANGST ANGST ANGST. I'm Sorry. I'm so sorry. For the record, there will be no het sex, but the next few chapters are going to hurt. I promise to make this right... sort of.

John loved the look of shocked satisfaction on Sherlock’s face after he’d taken him so forcefully. Oh, certainly John had been the one penetrated, but they both knew who was having their way with whom.

John had gone into the bathroom and prepared himself while Sherlock put the baby to sleep. Then he’d met the man in the living room stark naked, pinned him to the floor, and ridden him to their mutual satisfaction.

“I had no idea growling and snarling could be _sexy_ ,” Sherlock panted.

John chuckled, “Well, I did, but then you taught me that.”

Sherlock laughed, “I like you possessive like this. You’re the only one I would ever allow to _own_ me, John.”

“Mmm, Sher,” John purred, leaning down and capturing those full lips in a kiss again.

“That being said,” Sherlock stated, his eyes shifting to the side, “One can be said not to fully own something unless they can lend it to someone else.”

John sat up with a sigh, “Why do I have a feeling this has nothing to do with Jolene from the restaurant and everything with a newly acquired ally?”

“Yes and no, but that’s remarkably astute for you, John,” Sherlock stated, with every air of honestly being proud of John.

“Yes and no, _how?”_

“I mentioned impregnating Molly before…”

“You did,” John nodded, “And I’m aware that your thralls need you and that it’s not unusual for dragons that _are_ sexually active to have harems, but we’re _bonded_. You said it’s like marriage. Some kinky one-offs are one thing, but you having babies with other thralls is… gods, Sherlock, do you think I’m going to be okay with this?”

“You slept with Lestrade,” Sherlock reminded with a shrug.

“I didn’t get him up the duff! You know, that’s the second time you brought that up. Is it a problem, Sherlock? Do we need to discuss this?”

“No, I loved watching you two make love. It was beautiful. I’d be thrilled if it happened again,” Sherlock replied with all earnestness.

“Okay, that’s good. I’m not sure if I do, but if it happens again I won’t be upset.”

“Yet you’re disturbed by me being intimate with Molly?”

“Yes! No! I,” John sighed, got up and paced the room a moment, “I’m fine with you and Molly being intimate. You and Lestrade being intimate. Hell, if you want to have a huge orgy, I’m not disposed to say no. My problem is with you having _kids_ with other people. I’m your husband! I don’t want to share that part of you. That part should be _mine_.”

Sherlock smiled warmly up at the ceiling, “I want it to be yours only, too, John.”

“But?” He asked, watching as Sherlock picked himself up off the floor and collapsed onto the couch. John collected his clothes and pulled them on despite the sticky feeling and joined him on the couch.

“Irene is a powerful and important ally. She can strip Moriarty of his station within the Queen’s court and raise us up if she so chooses… for reasons I’m not at liberty to expand upon. Her price, however, is a high one. She wants a child. We negotiated for some time…”

“ _Without_ me!”

“She wants a child, but she doesn’t care if it’s with her. Just so long as it’s a dragon child.”

“So you breed Molly and then what? _Give_ her child away?! Fucking hell, Sherlock!”

John stood up, angry and hurt- for both himself and Molly.

“More than just the child, John. I would be giving Molly away, too.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about giving Molly to Irene to enthrall,” Sherlock replied, allowing John to see some of his pain, “ _After_ impregnating her.”

“You… Do you even _care_ about us? About your children?” John asked with his voice pitched high with pain.

“ _Yes_. I love you all. Deeply. I’m thinking of what is best for you all. Molly is unhappy. She wants more from me than I can give to her because I am bonded to _you_ and have no interest in women. Irene prefers her own gender. Molly will come to love her and they can be happy together. As for my child, Irene has assured me visitation. It isn’t ideal, but it is a good alliance and a _necessary_ one for our survival.”

“I… I can’t condone this, Sherlock. I can’t.”

“I need you to do more than condone it, John,” Sherlock stated firmly, “I need you to remove Molly from my nest once she’s pregnant and hand her to Irene.”

****

Chapter 39: Choices

“These are _lives_ Sherlock! _Human lives_! Just so we’re clear now, do you even care about that?!” John shouted, standing up and pacing the room again.

“Will caring about it alter their fate?”

“Yes! You could care enough to keep Molly as your thrall and…!”

“Deny her love, affection, sex, children, and grandchildren?”

“You can give her that without handing her off to Irene Adler!”

“Then you will be hurt because I’ve sired and raised a child with someone else. Your happiness is more important to me than hers.”

“That’s fucked up, Sherlock. She’s not worth less than I am.”

“Isn’t she?”

“No!”

“Why?”

“Because everyone is worth the same thing!”

“Including Moriarty and Moran?”

“Yes!”

“Then you are a better man than I.”

John turned away, frustrated and hurt, and heard Sherlock chuckle behind him.

“I’ve disappointed you,” Sherlock spoke softly, “Don’t put people on pedestals, John. His or her fall will only be faster and harder if you do, and _everyone falls,_ John. No one is immune to failure. Not even me. Now, are you going to help me, or not?”

“Have you asked Lestrade?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“He is not my husband. If I am going to commit an act of infidelity, it will be with you nearby to forgive me when I’m done.”

John wanted to cry. He wanted to curl up in a ball and weep like a child. He couldn’t.

“What if I don’t forgive you?”

“Then I’ll never forgive myself,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

John turned and hurried into the bathroom. He stripped and showered, ignoring Sherlock when he stepped inside the bathroom and tried to talk to him again.

“Will you help me, John?”

“The baby will be up soon. I need to shower.”

Sherlock left and they avoided the discussion again for several days. Until John came home to find Molly crying softly on the couch with Sherlock gently holding her hands.

“Am I that unimportant?”

“No. You aren’t unimportant,” Sherlock sighed, and pulled her into a gentle, but chaste, hug.

John joined them on the couch and rubbed her back gently. Molly turned to give him a miserable stare, “Was this _your_ idea?”

“What? No!” John stammered in alarm.

“I know you want him for yourself, but…”

“It _wasn’t_. Sherlock, _tell her!_ ”

“John had nothing to do with this,” Sherlock sighed, “I made the decision without him. He’s quite furious with me.”

“Well, so am I!” Molly sobbed, hugging Sherlock tighter.

“I’m so sorry, Molly,” Sherlock whispered, kissing her head, “I know I’m asking you to do something horrid, but I _need_ this from you. It’s the only way.”

“Why can’t she have her own babies!” Molly sobbed.

“She’s sterile now,” Sherlock sighed, “I don’t know if it’s something they did to her or a natural occurrence. She thinks it’s a punishment for not finding a way to protect her baby.”

Molly sniffed and sat up a bit, “That’s awful.”

“I agree,” Sherlock nodded.

“Can’t I have your baby and stay with you?” Molly pleaded.

“Molly, I wouldn’t let you stay even if this deal weren’t on the table,” Sherlock replied, “You’re unhappy. Irene can make you happy.”

“What about artificial insemination?” John pleaded, and winced. He knew it was a selfish thing to say the moment the words left his mouth.

“You would deny me the only thing I _can_ have with him? Are you so greedy?” Molly asked tearfully.

“I’m sorry,” John flushed, his voice pleading, “I know it isn’t fair, but he’s _mine._ ”

“I hate you both!” Molly sobbed, and fled the flat in tears.

“Why _not_ artificial insemination?” John demanded, “Preferably with a different male dragon.”

“Dragons don’t respond favorably to artificial insemination, John, you know that.”

“You are a _brilliant_ chemist…”

“With a time limit,” Sherlock replied miserably, “She wants this taken care of in a few short months.”

“She’s demanding _too much!_ ” John pleaded, “I’ll bet this is Moriarty’s plans! I’ll bet he wants to tear us apart!”

“Will this tear us apart.”

John paused, heart hammering painfully. He thought of the child in the other room and the idea of Sherlock divided with someone else’s child. He’d never felt so selfish and demanding in his life.

“Yes. Yes, Sherlock, this will tear us apart,” John replied firmly, “You can make me love you, but you can’t stop me from _hating you_.”

Sherlock nodded, “I’ll… I’ll find another solution.”

“Good. You do that. I’m going to go take _our daughter_ for a walk.”  
  


[CHAPTER 40-44](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/109138.html)

 


	9. vincentmeoblinn | Dragon Blood Ch 40-44

Chapter 40: Transfer

“You’re reneging on our deal!” Irene shouted in outrage.

Molly winced in fear.

“You can have Molly, that’s no small sacrifice.”

“What good is an empty thrall to me? I _need_ a child!”

“You have an entire castle full of English dragons. Have her breed with one of them,” Sherlock replied coldly.

“You know full well I’ll be unable to allow them to touch her once she’s my thrall.”

“Yes, the solution seems ideal. I cannot allow this to destroy my family. I have a daughter to think of,” Sherlock replied softy.

“I will destroy you,” Irene hissed.

“I will give you what you want,” Sherlock replied, “But I will require more time.”

“I have waited two hundred years for a family!”

“I will give you one. What is one more year?”

Irene stood there, breathing angrily through her nose and shaking slightly, “What do you propose?”

“I now know the flaws from previous attempts at artificial insemination. I can correct the errors of past doctors and scientists and give you a child that is both yours and Molly’s.”

“That’s… impossible,” Irene replied, but there was hope in her voice.

“Not impossible, just improbable.”

Molly sobbed again from the couch, “Please! Please! I won’t ask for any more of your time! Please just don’t send me away!”

“I’m sorry, Molly,” Sherlock replied softly.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John came home in time to find Irene and Sherlock pinning Molly to the floor. Irene was attempting to gaze into Molly’s eyes and she was fighting them while screaming and crying hysterically. John reacted instantly, bolting across the floor and dragging Irene off of Molly. He threw her forcefully into the wall. She gasped, eyes dazed, and struggle to rise again.

“John!” Sherlock shouted, standing up behind him, “Stand down!”

“She doesn’t _want_ this!” John shouted back.

“You didn’t want to come back to me, either, should I have abandoned you to Moriarty?”

“That’s different! She loves you! _I_ love you!”

“She’ll love Irene.”

“Are we so pitiful and small to you?” John shouted angrily.

“No. I am responsible for her, John. I can’t make her happy. Irene can.”

Molly was sobbing brokenly on the floor, curled up in a ball and sniffling piteously. John knelt down to make sure she was okay, but she pushed him away.

“This is your fault! Why can’t you just _share_ him!? You selfish bastard!” Molly screamed, then went limp and sobbed again.

“John, help us hold her down,” Sherlock ordered.

“No!”

“John,” Sherlock spoke softly, “This or the first plan.”

“You can’t make me decide her future! It’s wrong!”

“This is what dragons _do_ , John. We manipulate the world into the image we want. We own it. You may be my direct thrall, but in the end the entire human race are ours. We are _gods_ , John. Moriarty realizes this, but he seeks to control it as well and would destroy it eventually. My goal is to have dragons policed _equally_ ; to bring us _down_ from the level of gods, but I can’t do this without you, my love. I want a better future for our daughter; for that sacrifices must be made. This is the lesser sacrifice.”

“But the first of how many? How long before they’re unbearable, Sherlock? To all of us instead of just to one?”

“If you think I am unaffected by this, than you don’t know me as well as I thought,” Sherlock spoke gently.

John brushed tears from his cheeks and gripped Molly’s ankles.

“No! NO! **NO!!** ” Molly screamed.

John closed his eyes and held her tightly restrained while Sherlock did the same. Irene straddled her hips and commenced enthralling her. John sobbed with every shriek and plea that Molly let out, but when the room dropped silent he opened his eyes in concern. Irene was still straddling Molly’s hips, but she’d stopped thrashing and Sherlock was slowly easing off her arms, a cautious look on his face. John moved off of her and saw her eyes were confused but no longer shedding tears.

“That’s it, Molly. Let me in, dear,” Irene soothed gently.

“Oh, you… oh, you’re so… _alone_ ,” Molly sobbed, “Just like me…”

Irene broke eye contact and pulled Molly close; John and Sherlock stood and stepped back as they held each other gently.

“You’re going to be okay, sweetheart,” Irene soothed, “You’ll feel topsy-turvy for a bit, but you’ll be just fine.”

Irene and Molly slowly shifted from floor to sofa, holding each other gently. Irene looked up, tears in her eyes, and smiled softly at Sherlock and John.

“You were right, Sherlock,” Irene sniffled, “She’s perfect.”

“I am?” Molly asked nervously.

“Yes, sweetheart, you are,” Irene soothed, pressing kisses to her temple.

John heard Sherlock sigh in relief beside him, and turned to see if he was all right.  

“Please excuse me,” Sherlock stated, “I have to get to work on your baby.”

Sherlock practically rushed from the room. John thought he saw tears in his eyes.

****

Chapter 41: A Broken Heart

_ “Will it hurt?” Molly asked.  _

_ John turned to see her leaning against his doorway. He adjusted Lian in his arms and made sure the bottle was still supplying her with milk rather than air. _

_ “I don’t know. I suffered withdrawal. You won’t go through that. I take it you’re going through with it?” _

_ “He isn’t giving me a choice.” _

_ “I can tell you what being without him was like, but I don’t think you want to hear it.” _

_ “I just… I want to be prepared. I want to know.” _

_ “I wasn’t… suicidal… I didn’t want to die. There was just no reason to keep going. I was on autopilot. Killing myself seemed… logical. There was no emotion behind it.” _

_ “That’s… awful.” _

_ “Then Moriarty enthralled me and… I wasn’t alone anymore. I felt complete again. I felt… purpose.” _

_ “With  _ him _?”_

_ “Yes. We… we aren’t as free as we think, Molly.” _

_ “I never thought we were.” _

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

John watched Sherlock’s shoulders shake from the doorway and carefully shut it behind him. He wasn’t used to emotional Sherlock. True, he wasn’t the cold face he put on for everyone else, but he also wasn’t frequently sentimental. Now he was sobbing like a broken hearted teenager who had gotten dumped for the first time.

“Sherlock?” John worried, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“She doesn’t even care anymore. She’ll forget all about me. About every conversation we ever had. Oh, she’ll _remember_ , but she won’t _remember_.”

“Okay,” John replied, rubbing the small of his back gently.

“I’ve _lost_ her. Worse than that, _I gave her up._ She was _mine_ ,” Sherlock sobbed, “She was mine and I just _gave her away_.”

“Sometimes if you love someone you have to let them go,” John quoted, flushing at the cliché.

Sherlock let out a sobbing laugh.

“Sorry,” John chuckled, “I’m supposed to be better at these sorts of things.”

“Just… tell me she’ll be happy.”

“Yeah. She will. She’ll be much happier,” John soothed, kissing the back of Sherlock’s head. 

****

Chapter 42: Threats

Mycroft strode down the halls of Buckingham palace with purpose in his step for the first time in days. Ever since Moriarty had let out the secret about him being his brother’s thrall he had been ostrasized, discriminated against, and even outright threatened with bodily harm. He had weathered it all, though it had been a close thing one night when someone had nearly run him down in the street in front of his London home. Anthea had sweetly stood by his side, but Sherlock seemed to believe she was a spy. Mycroft was torn. He cared about Anthea, but if she was actually bedding Irene – as a large portion of the court was – then she could be dangerous. Then again, wasn’t that was everyone was thinking about him?

Now he was called to court officially for the first time in days and his nerves had resolved themselves of all tension. He would face his fate with squared shoulders and a stiff upper lip. If the Queen chose to excommunicate him, then so be it. He still had Sherlock. He would always have Sherlock. Despite the detective’s attempts to dissolve their thrall, he had been unable to do so. Moriarty had even assaulted and attempted to steal him once, but it had been futile. Perhaps it was because they were siblings.

Mycroft stepped into the large receiving room- a far cry from throne rooms of ages past, though no less ostentatious and requiring of formality. He bowed low to the Queen who waved an imperious hand to him and gestured for him to sit in one of the high-backed chairs before her very large and very stuffed one. It was _almost_ a throne, but managed to still appear less suffocating. Mycroft sat and made himself look as composed and calm as possible.

“You know,” the Queen began in her perfectly toned voice, “That we do not allow thralls in politics, Mycroft. Indeed it is shocking to find one. Most people of dragon lineage resist enthrallment naturally. Yet here you are, a confirmed thrall- and of your own brother, no less! What have you to say for this scandal and your failure to inform us?”

“Apologies, your majesty, my brother effects my life so little in that regards that I saw no reason to disturb your sensibilities.”

“Does he not? You were not, then, granted time away from your duties to attend to his nesting?”

“A luxury the crown would have afforded me had I not been his thrall, as indeed they did not know I was at the time.”

“And you have not spent many hours and government dollars protecting and defending him?”

“My own funds, your majes-“

“Your funds _come_ from the governement, young man. Never forget that.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“This… brother of yours. He was a shock to us all. Emerging as a Chinese dragon! Perhaps we have been harsh with him. He should have been welcomed among us, cherished for the rarity he is, instead of ostrasized and ridiculed. Perhaps that is why he sought to plant a spy within my ranks.”

“I assure you, my acquisition was entirely unplanned and accidental. My brother enthralled me seconds after he emerged in a fit of fear and loneliness. He had no idea what he was and was running on instict. He’d only ever seen English dragons, you know.”

“You would have me believe there was no calculation behind his actions? From what I have heard of your brother, this is impossible.”

Mycroft swallowed, “He was young and afraid at the time. True, he is brilliant- alarmingly so- but he is also a childish and petulant boy, no matter his age as of now.”

The queen smiled- tight-lipped, but clearly amused, “You speak of him as though he _annoys_ you.”

“If you are ever afforded the displeasure of meeting him,” Mycroft grimaced, “I imagine you will share that _annoyance_ with me. Though, knowing Sherlock, he might settle for outrage or even horror.”

“I have heard stories of his barbed tongue, and have received a letter from him in times passed.”

“A letter, your majesty?” Mycroft asked in surprise.

“Yes. The week he stole one of the treasure chests from my hoard I sent him a congratulatory letter, having admired his prowess and outright gall. Here is his response.”

Mycroft held his hand out and accepted the letter, glancing cautiously up at the Queen to gauge her reaction. It was a rule that no one in his profession ever looked into the eyes of another person, but equally no one, anywhere, _ever_ met the Queens eyes. He did not do so now, though he was sorely tempted.

The letter was in its envelope, fine bohemian paper with an antique wax seal featuring their family crest. He’d have to go and check to see if Sherlock had stolen one of his or merely broken into his house, sealed the letter, and broken back out undetected. The letter itself was short and to the point.

‘ _Queen Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God Queen of this Realm and of Her other Realms and Territories, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith:_

__

__

__

_ Sincerely,  _

_ Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective' _

Mycroft blinked at the blank space in between, sighed, leaned forward and gave it a sniff, and then came away with a look of disgust on his face.

“Sani-gel?” The Queen offered after Mycroft had stuffed the urine-soaked letter back into the envelope.

“Yes, thank you,” Mycroft replied, holding out his hands and accepting a squeeze from the bottle. True, urine was sterile, but that didn’t eliminate the smell or the absolute disgust he felt for the situation.

“I apologize for my brother,” Mycroft stated.

“An activity that must take up most hours in the day,” The Queen replied with a raised eyebrow.

“How can I be of service, your majesty?” Mycroft asked when it became apparent that she wasn’t going to say anything further.

“How indeed. It seems there are some cries from those in my court that my kin need to be better controlled. I understand that you have evidence that one of my dragons in particular is not only a hardened criminal, but not a proper dragon at all.”

“I have such evidence, yes, but bringing the truth to light will reveal things about the crown that are… shall we say… _private_.”

“You speak of an experiment done during WWII?”

“I do, your majesty.”

“How common is the knowledge of this experiment?”

“My fellow thralls and Sherlock are aware of it, as well as the victims involved and- I assume- their thralls.”

“Those are far more people than I am comfortable having a knowledge that brutally murdering an innocent child can create a dragon.”

“Quite, your majesty.”

“I have been told that Sherlock’s silence can be easily bought with an invitation to the court. Is this true?”

“My brother longs to belong, but I doubt he ever could, your majesty. Merely bringing him in will quell his temper for a time, but he will be as outspoken and… obnoxious… as always. As for keeping the secret, it is in his best interest as well.”

“Brutal honesty,” She replied with a firm nod and an approving tone, “I like it. You will bring Sherlock in at once. Send someone to fetch him.”

Mycroft rose and bowed, “Your majesty.”

“Oh, and Mycroft Holmes?” The Queen called as he was heading for the doorway.

Mycroft turned and faced his monarch once more, “Your majesty?”

“Fail me, betray me, or prove yourself unworthy and it won’t be a car you’re dodging on the street. I’ll bring back the chopping block for you.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

****

****

Chapter 43: A Scandal in Buckingham Palace

A/N I have done a great deal of quoting in this chapter, from both the books and the BBC TV series. It got a bit out of hand, but you will need to pay attention because not everyone says the exact same thing they said in either… or means it.

John was out trying to earn their bread while Sherlock stayed home with Lian. The reason for the switch was Sherlock’s clinginess with Lian since Molly had been ejected from their little circle; that and Sherlock was refusing to leave the flat because it was too cold to go naked and he refused to don clothing.

The git.

Instead he was huddled in a warm blanket with a sour look on his face while John trudged out to a creek to try and figure out how a man had mysteriously ended up dead while the only witness for miles had mysteriously _not seen a thing_. They were using John’s mobile and Sherlock’s laptop to communicate via video chat when Sherlock suddenly turned and shouted at the door.

“Sherlock, what’s going on?”

Two men had come upstairs and John watched in alarm as one of them shut the laptop.

_ Sherlock, what’s going on. _

< _You’re going to love this. >_

_ Sherlock? _

“Excuse me sir, it’s for you,” A carrot-topped lad interrupted.

“Oh, thanks,” John held his hand out for the mobile, but the giddy PC shook his head.

“No, sir, the _helicopter_.”

_ Sherlock?! _

< _You’re. Going. To. Love. This. >_

John did love the helicopter ride, but the march through Buckingham palace was a bit intimidating. He wasn’t at all surprised to see Sherlock sitting on a posh sofa, but he was surprised to see he hadn’t a stitch of clothing on. Instead he was wrapped up like a burrito in a large comforter.

“Didn’t feel like wearing pants?” John snickered.

“Nope.”

“Buckingham palace! I am seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray,” John chuckled, “What are we doing in Buckingham palace, Sherlock Holmes? Seriously. What? Here to see the queen?”

Mycroft took that unfortunate moment to enter the room with Lian over his shoulder in a pretty, long white dress and bonnet.

“Oh, apparently yes!” Sherlock cheerily replied, resulting in both of the snickering like schoolboys.

“Can’t the two of you _for once_ act like grown ups?”

“He solves crimes and I blog about it, I wouldn’t hold out too much hope,” John chortled.

“If you wanted to see Lian you could have just popped by. There was no need to go to such ridiculous lengths,” Sherlock teased.

Mycroft turned his head and nuzzled the girl’s bonnet, “You couldn’t keep me away from her if you tried, but I think we both know that’s not why we’re here. Your clothes, Sherlock.”

Mycroft indicated the neat folded pile, but Sherlock turned his nose up at it.

“What for?”

“We are in Buckingham Palace, the heart of the British nation. Either you go naked and proud like a proper dragon- which it is far too chilly to do without embarrassing yourself- or you will put your trousers on and dress _respectably_ , not in a ratty quilt!”

“I assure you, brother, I have _nothing_ to be ashamed of,” Sherlock smirked.

“He really doesn’t,” John grinned wickedly.

“Something I would love to find out for myself,” Irene Adler swept into the room at that point, a flowing gown gracing her curves with an open back to accommodate her wings. Following close behind her were two women with their arms linked. One was a dark blonde with red highlights and a smug smirk, and the other was…

“Molly,” John stammered.

Sherlock rose to his feet, suddenly looking as though he’d prefer it if he _were_ wearing trousers. Irene dropped down onto the settee with the grace of a lioness and looked at them as if they were antelope.

“You may greet her, you know,” Irene consoled with a mock pout, “I know you want to.”

Sherlock’s jaw locked for a moment and John thought he was going to pretend he didn’t want to speak or see Molly at all, but then he scooped up the clothes, dropped the blanket, and began to dress without an ounce of shame. John watched the display with appreciation, as did everyone in the room except Mycroft who busied himself showing Lian the birds outside the window. Once dressed in an expensive suit that only made him look _sexier_ \- if that was possible- Sherlock walked over to Molly and held out one hand.

Molly was dressed from neck to toe in a long, flowing cream evening gown with thousands of tiny pearls adorning the upper half. Her shoes a perfect match to the dress and of the finest quality, just peaking out from the bottom of the gown. Her hair was done up in stunning loose curls and allowed to flow over her shoulders in a shimmering cascade. Her hands were gloved in silk up to her elbows, and she clasped Sherlock’s hands with one of her own while keeping her eyes demurely lowered. No eye contact was allowed between them, of course, but that didn’t stop Sherlock from staring at her face as though drinking in her beauty. He raised her hand to his lips and pressed them to the silky back.

“Palace life suits you, it would seem,” Sherlock stated softly.

“Thanks… It’s all so glamorous!”

“You are… well?”

“Oh, very well,” Molly replied, her eyes carefully avoiding Sherlock’s as she glanced up at his face, “This is Kate. She’s Countess Irene’s other thrall. She’s been with her for over a hundred years!”

“You don’t look a day over twenty,” Sherlock flattered uncharacteristically.

“Flattery will get you nowhere with her, Sherlock Holmes,” Irene chided, “She requires a _firmer_ hand.”

Molly blushed and giggled and John felt his face heat up.

“Are you regretting our transaction?” Irene asked as Sherlock returned to his seat and the women took up a place on either side of the Countess.

“Not at all, I’m glad Molly is in such good care. I was, however, hoping to meet your husband.”

“He should be joining us shortly,” Irene replied easily, “Ah! Here he is now.”

They all rose again and a short man with severe, dark hair and bushy eyebrows greeted them with a severe look.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I presume,” He grunted out with a thick accent.

“The same. Count Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein of Bohemia*, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

John blinked at Sherlock’s courteous replies in confusion, but made no comment.

“You looked taller in your photographs,” The Count replied, apparently lacking in the manners Sherlock was attempting to display.

“Took the precaution of a good coat and a short thrall,” Sherlock replied, earning a glare from John.

“And this must be Captain John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. The Queen is a huge fan of your blog,” The Count continued.

“The… Queen?” John replied, throwing Sherlock a smug look.

“Particularly enjoyed the one about the Aluminium crutch.”

Sherlock made a disgusted face and sighed dramatically, but they were saved from him forgetting his manners when a tea trolley rolled in. He must have been hungry (for once) because his eyes lit up at the sight and they all sat down to enjoy a moment of civility with the Count taking a chair off to one side and Mycroft taking one on the opposite end of the couch Irene and her thralls were situated at. Sherlock took hold of John’s hand and the thrall squeezed it in comfort, knowing how difficult this was for him to see Molly again.

_ You okay? _

_ <I’m glad she’s happier, but I didn’t expect to miss her. I took her for granted.> _

_ We all learn those sorts of lessons in life. Be glad it wasn’t something that couldn’t be corrected. It’s not like she’s died on you and you can’t tell her now. _

_ <She knows. I can tell by her body language. This is… better.> _

“I’ll be mother,” Mycroft stated as he began to pour.

“And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell,” Sherlock taunted.

_ Back to normal, I see. _

_ <Manners are tedious.> _

“Our Queen has a problem,” Irene stated with an ironic tone to her voice.

Sherlock’s lips quirked and John tried not to smirk back.

“A matter has come to light,” Mycroft explained, “Of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature, and in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen.”

_ From the lips of our dear Countess, I suppose? _ John questioned Sherlock silently.

_ <Obviously.> _

“Delicate how?” Sherlock asked, though John suspected it was rehearsed.

“Delicate in that our illustrious Queen requires one of her own kind to be… examined, and that he has information that is potentially damaging to the crown and those associated with it. This is a matter of the highest security, and therefore of _trust_ ,which is why an outside party is preferable.”

“What, you don’t trust your own secret service?” John scoffed.

“Naturally not. They all spy on people for money,” Mycroft smirked.

John returned it and felt a trill at the back of his mind from Sherlock. Apparently he was amused.

“Whom?” Sherlock demanded, though he had to know having set all this up.

“James Moriarty,” Irene Adler purred.

John froze beside Sherlock, his cup halfway to his lips.

“You are familiar with him?” Count Wilhelm asked, though it was clear from his expression he knew they were.

John’s eyes flew to Sherlock, who had lowered his eyelids partway almost sensually.

“James Moriarty,” Sherlock replied softly, “is the Napoleon of crime. He is the organizer of half that is evil and nearly all that is undetected in this great city. The man pervades London, and yet no one has heard of him. That's what puts him on a pinnacle in the records of crime. He is a genius, a philosopher, and an abstract thinker.  He has a brain of the first order. He sits motionless, like a spider in the centre of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of them. He does little himself. He only plans. But his agents are numerous and splendidly organised. If there is a crime to be done, a paper to be abstracted, we will say, a house to be rifled, or a man to be removed - the word is passed to the Professor, the matter is organised and carried out. The agent may be caught. In that case money is found for his bail or his defense. But the central power which uses the agent is never caught - never so much as suspected… John, you might want to put that cup back in its saucer now.”

John- who had been staring at Sherlock with growing lust as his smooth voice uttered each syllable with sultry precision- promptly closed his mouth, replaced his cup, and blotted at his chin with a napkin to cover his humiliation.

Mycroft smirked, “But in calling Moriarty a criminal you are uttering libel in the eyes of the law - and there lies the glory and the wonder of it! The greatest schemer of all time, the organiser of every devilry, the controlling brain of the underworld, a brain that might have made or marred the destiny of nations - that's the man. But so aloof is he from general suspicion, so immune from criticism, so admirable in his management and self-effacement, that for those very words that you have uttered he could hale you to a court and emerge with your year's pension as a solatium for his wounded character.”

“Then what are we to do about it?” John interrupted, “The Queen’s own laws protect him and Sherlock’s been ostracized from the courts and that same protection because he isn’t an English dragon… which is just a _bit_ racist, by the way.”

“Yes, thank you, John. Kindly shut up.”

“The Queen is prepared to welcome you into the court,” The Count stated firmly, “Should you prove yourself worthy by eliminating this threat to Queen and country.”

“ _Kill_ Moriarty?” John asked in alarm.

“If necessary,” Mycroft intoned, “Or isolate the threat without embarrassing the throne.”

“Oh, well, that should take until dinner time, right Sherlock?” John asked sarcastically.

“Certainly before the end of the day,” Sherlock replied back easily, though his response was noticeably without sarcasm. He stood and began stripping his clothing off, dropping them into John’s lap piece by piece.  

“Do you really think you’ll have news by then?” The Count scoffed.

“No, I think I’ll have Moriarty and proof that he should be punished for treason, which is still the easiest way to eliminate a threat to the crown.”

“One can only hope you’re as good as you seem to think,” Wilhelm countered.

John watched Sherlock narrow his eyes and hoped the Count was ready to be verbally eviscerated.

_ He’s a Count, Sherlock, be nice! _

“I’ll need some equipment, of course,” Sherlock replied easily.

“Anything you require,” Mycroft assured, “I’ll have it sent over.”

“Can I have a box of matches?” Sherlock asked, holding his hand out to the Count.

“I’m sorry?”

“Or your cigarette lighter, either will do.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“No, I know you don’t, but your employer does.”

The count stammered excuses in alarm at such a revelation, but Sherlock waved him off with a casual reply.

“I’m not the commonwealth.”

“And that’s as modest as he gets,” John replied, holding up Sherlock’s long coat so the man could slip into it, step back into his shoes, and throw his scarf around his neck with dramatic flare, “Pleasure to meet you.”

John offered to take Lian from Mycroft, but he shook his head.

“She’ll be staying with me until you both return… safely,” Mycroft intoned, and John nodded his understanding.

“Laters!” Sherlock called and flowed out of the room with John coasting in his wake.

*From the canon books, Irene Adler’s lover: Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein and King of Bohemia. I changed him to a Count for the story. He was _not_ her husband in the books, but I preferred him for the part in my story.

****

Chapter 44: The Man Behind The Name That No One Speaks

They went straight to the Diogenes club and John was only slightly surprised to see Mycroft already waiting there for them.

“Hello dear brother,” Sherlock smirked, dropping down in a seat once they had passed the eerily silent ‘communal’ area.

“Sherlock. You’re here for information, I take it.”

“Of course, and advice.”

“Advice?” Mycroft gives Sherlock a surprised look.

“You’ve given it before.”

“You’ve ignored it before.”

“Not where cases have been concerned,” Sherlock amended, “Though I have followed up on your rather presumptive methods by actually _doing_ _research_.”

Mycroft gave the idea of doing so a shudder and a look of disgust before standing and searching a shelf for a book. Once he drew the book down he placed it on the table and flipped it open to reveal the hollow inside. From there he pulled a flash drive and held it out to Sherlock.

“This represents _all_ the data we have on one Mr. James Moriarty. I’m afraid it is scarcely anything at all. If we could capture him and _question_ him…”

“First we need to prove he needs catching. Have you any of your plots?”

“None at the moment, but you’ll know the minute I do… provided I am kept in the loop.”

“Mm,” Sherlock acknowledged with obvious distaste.

“About _more_ than your case,” Mycroft added.

Sherlock paused and blinked, glanced down at his daughter in Mycroft’s arms, then back at Mycroft’s face.

“You’re speaking of Lestrade,” Sherlock stated with a tone of surprise.

“For some reason he no longer _trusts_ me.”

“For some reason you saw fit to manipulate and lie to him. I don’t trust you either. Good day, brother,” Sherlock stood and John stood with him.

“Sherlock, the secret is _out_. You must acknowledge me as your thrall!” Mycroft snapped, lurching to his feet with a pained look on his face.

“I do; but I acknowledge you as brother first, and as such you are insufferable,” Sherlock spun on his heels and marched out of the room with John casting a pitying look over his shoulder at Mycroft.

“What does he want from you?” John asked once they were past the appalling silence of the men Sherlock termed ‘the most unsociable and unclubable men in the world’.

“What all thralls want: my time and love.”

“He’s your brother, surely you love him.”

“I suppose.”

“Sherlock,” John tugged Sherlock to a halt, “The man’s holding our child, he helped her hatch, he looked after you before I came along, surely you can afford him some kind of mild affection!”

“He has no ambition and no energy,” Sherlock started, his voice raised in preparation for a rant, “He will not even go out of his way to verify his own solutions, and would rather be considered _wrong_ than take the trouble to prove himself right. Again and again I have taken a problem to him, and have received an explanation, which has afterwards proved to be the correct one, and yet he was absolutely incapable of working out the practical points!*”

“So he’s not perfect! Harry’s a lush!”

“Who’s Harry?”

“My sister!”

“That’s her name?”

“What does your brother even _do_ anyway? I mean, besides sit in that creepy office and stalk you,” John wondered as Sherlock hailed a cab with his usual ease.

“The conclusions of every department are passed to him, and he is the central exchange, the clearinghouse, which makes out the balance. All other men are specialists, but his specialism is omniscience**,” Sherlock explained.

“If his specialty is omniscience, then why has he got so little on…?”

“Shh!” Sherlock hissed, though he needn’t have since John immediately felt his mouth click shut before he could utter the word, “Do not speak his name outside places I _specify_ are safe.”

John nodded mutely, but the compulsion to remain silent stayed on until nearly twenty minutes after they had reached the flat. There, Sherlock loaded the information from the flash drive onto a computer and studied what came up. It was pitifully little.

“I was afraid of this, in fact I suspected it. You were going to ask me why he has so little on Moriarty?” Sherlock mentioned, and John nodded silently, “Because the man doesn’t exist.”

** Notes: **

*Sherlock Holmes, speaking of his brother in "The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter"

**”The Bruce-Partington Plans”  
  


[CHAPTER 45-49](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/109547.html)

 


	10. vincentmeoblinn | DRAGON BLOOD 45-49

 

 

Chapter 45: Broken Families

John gave Sherlock a look of absolute confusion.

“There is no James Moriarty,” Sherlock explained softly, “It’s an alias. If we want to find the real oasis amidst the mirages we’ll need to first find out _who_ he is.”

_How do we do that?_ John asked.

“We start by hypnotizing you and go from there.”

“Sorry, what? Oh, my voice is back!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “You were Moriarty’s thrall. For some _small_ point in time, you were intimately involved with him.”

“He _never_ touched me,” John replied instantly.

“You know what I mean. Locked in side that funny little brain of yours is information _we need_. We just have to dredge it up,” Sherlock turned contemplative, “I wonder if it will be as straight forward as dredging a lake for a body?”

“You’ve never seen hypnotism?”

“No. Imprecise science. Still, needs must. Come along John, we've a quack to find!"

John sat nervously on a couch while the doctor they found argued that trust had to be established first.

“He’s my thrall,” Sherlock argued, “He’ll trust whomever I say to trust. Isn’t that right, John?”

“Nope,” John replied with a slight shake of his head.

“See? Not a problem,” Sherlock decided, completely ignoring John’s response.

The doctor sighed and gave it a try. Two hours later, after the therapist canceled all of his evening appointments at Sherlock’s insistence, John finally felt an odd sort of calm seeping over him. The remainder he watched from a quiet distance, as though he were standing in the room instead of inside his own head.

“What is James Moriarty’s real name?”

“Reichenbach.”

“That’s the name of a waterfall in Switzerland. The concentration camp Irene was at wasn’t far from there, just across the border,” Sherlock muttered softly.

“You must be quiet, Mr. Holmes. He’s very suggestible like this.”

“He’s _always_ suggestible to me.”

“Sherlock’s _never_ quiet,” John intoned.

Sherlock snorted.

“What does Reichenbach mean?” The doctor tried.

“Reichen Bach,” John replied softly.

“He paused that time,” Sherlock noted, “Germany is on the border of Switzerland. Richard Brook… but that isn’t Irish at all. His accent isn’t fake, I’m sure it isn’t.”

“He’s only half Irish,” John pointed out calmly.

“Yes, but I’ve already isolated his German and his Irish predecessors unless… wake him up. Wake him up we have what we need.”

John came out of it slowly and blinked around him with a yawn, “I’m knackered.”

“You’ll have to suck it up, I’m afraid,” Sherlock replied, his voice tense, “I’m afraid my first idea wasn’t entirely correct, so now we have someone to find.”

They headed outside where Sherlock ducked down an alley, gave John a boost onto a fire escape ladder, then climbed to the roof of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Sherlock looked around, rubbing his hands as though nervous, and then faced John with open concern in his eyes.

“I have to ask you to do something we both might regret.”

“What?”

“I need you to jump off this ledge.”

“Okay… why?”

“I won’t compel you. I need you to do it on your own.”

“Again, why?”

“I need to be terrified for your safety.”

“Okay. All right. I’ve always said I’d kill or die for you, I guess this is some kind of test to see if Moriarty- or whoever he is- still has a hold over me?”

“If you’d like,” Sherlock nodded, but his eyes made John think that the dragon-man hadn’t heard him.

John nodded calmly, walked to the edge of the roof, stepped up on the ledge, and looked back at Sherlock. He hadn’t moved. He was standing anxiously in the middle of the roof staring at John, who decided at that moment if he _was_ going to jump off a building he’d do it with Sherlock in his sight. He turned and then called out.

“Count of three?”

“If you like.”

“Three… two… one!”

John didn’t scream as he felt gravity take hold of him. He gasped and watched as the world seemed to slow down around him. He plummeted an entire story before Sherlock came flying over the edge in full dragon form. He had dropped another by the time he got close. John was just taking in what he was sure would be the last sight of his lover when Sherlock grasped him with both claws and the world sped up, jerked, twisted in on itself, and became suddenly cold.

John was clutched tightly against smooth, hard, dragon scale as Sherlock held him tightly in his grasp. John could hear his breaths panting in and out as he tried to calm his panicked heartbeat, which John could feel pounding against his own ribcage. There was a dizzying moment as their hearts fought to sync up and then did so and John sighed into Sherlock’s embrace, nuzzling the scales in front of him lovingly.

They separated slowly and when Sherlock transformed he shivered in the cold. He’d managed to drag along his coat by having it grasped in one hind-claw, but he’d apparently dropped one of his shoes. Sherlock wrapped the coat tightly around himself but denied John’s offer of his shoes.

“They’d never fit and I’m not about to let you get frostbite. I can withstand colder temperatures than you can anyway.”

“Where are we?” John asked, looking around at the beautiful vista before him.

“Reichenbach Falls,” Sherlock explained, “Above us is the highest cataract in the alps.”

“Lovely… why did I have to almost jump to my death to get here?”

“I haven’t harnessed the ability to teleport at will. Last time I did it out of necessity to ‘protect’ you from Mary. This time I did it to save us both as there was no way to slow down enough to stop us both from splattering across the pavement.”

“Right. Okay. Out of curiosity, did you _know_ it would work?”

“No.”

John shook with anger, his daughter’s face flashing before his eyes.

“We have a _child_ now! You can’t go risking your life just to prove a point to yourself! We could have orphaned her!”

“You weren’t thinking of that when you jumped.”

“I _trusted_ you!”

“Then trust that I have Lian’s best interests at heart. Why do you think she’s with her Uncle right now?”

John stilled and then nodded, “I’m sorry. I…”

Sherlock waved him off, “Come on. Let’s go down. I’m not sure exactly where to start and we are on a time table.”

“What are we looking for?”

“Whom.”

“Who are we looking for?”

“Richard Brooks. I have a feeling we need to start in the local hospitals.”

They found him easily enough. He was a war hero from WWII, but was now old and ill, his hands grasping the nurse call button as though it were the control stick on his B-17.

“Who is this?”

“Moriarty and Moran’s son. No wonder he didn’t want to use his own offspring. He might have been mutated into a dragon, but he isn’t a _true_ dragon. He can’t pass down the genes. His son has grown old before him.”

“That’s… awful.”

They managed to meet and converse with Mr. Brooks’ daughter, who told them his life story. He had a large family, apparently, but none of them were aware of who James Moriarty really was; Richard Brooks, his three brothers, and his sister, had all been raised by another couple.

“We get money from him, but we’ve never met him. He keeps track of us, though. We know he does. Whenever a new child is born in our family another account his opened. We’ll never want for anything.”

“Is there any dragon blood in your family?” Sherlock asked.

The woman laughed, “I think I’d know if there was, don’t you?”

Sherlock smiled sadly and nodded, “I need to ask for your father’s identifying information. I’m afraid someone’s been using him as an alias.”

It took some convincing, but eventually they got the information they wanted and Sherlock used John’s mobile to contact Mycroft.

“I hadn’t connected the two,” Mycroft stated.

“Of course you didn’t, you…” Sherlock stopped as he caught John’s angry glare, “Would you be so kind as to run a full search on him? I’ll be home shortly to weed out which is the real Richard Brooks and which activities were performed by Moriarty using his son as an alias.”

Sherlock hung up the phone and stepped up to John, slipping his arm around his waist possessively.

“You’re determined to make a better dragon out of me, aren’t you?”

“If I don’t save you from yourself, who will?” John asked.

Sherlock smirked and the world twisted in on itself before spitting them out in the middle of Mycroft’s office.

“Good gods!” Mycroft shouted, and John looked over to see him crouched by the bookshelf in alarm, his hands protectively cradling Lian to his chest. The baby wailed and John hurried over to scoop her up.

“Oh, my little girl, did Mummy and Daddy scare you?” John soothed, pressing her close. Lian’s tears stopped instantly as she breathed in his scent and cuddle close, cooing sweetly.

Sherlock came over to press kisses to his daughter’s face and then subtly nodded for John to step out of the room. John headed for the bathrooms since no sound was allowed in the rest of the building. There he changed Lian and spent some time watching her try to figure the mirror out before someone knocked on the door and he had to exit. Not sure what to do, he checked in with Sherlock.

_Can I come back? I don’t want to take her outside without you until Moriarty is locked up._

< _Yes, come back. >_

John stepped into Mycroft’s office and found the two of them wrapped in a tight embrace. He blinked in surprise, noted Mycroft hurriedly brushing tears form his cheek, and smiled happily at Sherlock.

“Mycroft has provided me with the data I needed as well as a few theories,” Sherlock stated, pretending his cheeks weren’t damp as well, “Let’s head back to Baker Street. Lian should be in bed and we have some proof to lay before the Queen by nightfall.”

XXXXXXXXX

Mycroft watched them leave and sank into his chair, the pain in his chest unwinding slowly. He and his brother had been at odds since they were very small children, though Sherlock claimed he recalled it occurring since infancy. To have Sherlock finally state that he wanted it put behind them…

Mycroft was sure John was the influence behind Sherlock’s sudden urge to reconcile. The man hadn’t been overly cruel since Mycroft had become his unwitting thrall, but he had neglected him and Mycroft had spent more than one night tossing and turning, as his body demanded he renew his bond with his dragon owner. Still, the long meetings over tea had been a comfort to him, especially after the long stretch in Afghanistan. How the enthrallment _hadn’t_ broken then was still a mystery, and one Sherlock now wanted to devote research to. He thought it had to do with them being related, much as a thrall could be passed down to a surviving dragon family member.

Whatever the outcome, hearing Sherlock confess that he cared for Mycroft and feeling the man _hug_ him for the first time in decades… Mycroft pressed a clean handkerchief to his cheek to dab up the freshly flowing tears. His brother was important to him; he loved him dearly, and had before the thrall had been in place. That the man _finally_ was able to return it was undoubtedly owed to one Doctor John Hamish Watson. Mycroft would have to find a way to express his gratitude to the former army doctor. The man had already given him something he had never thought to be honored with: a niece.

Mycroft sighed and thought on his own life as well. He’d done Gregory a great disservice, and though his fellow thrall was still obviously interested in him, he was also shying away from him. Mycroft had been prepared to dive into a relationship full throttle, inviting the man to live in his home with the express statement that they might as well since they shared a connection through Sherlock; neither of them were going anywhere and the attraction was real and obvious.

He had his own reparations to make.

 

 

I ran across this while doing some research and was impressed with this man’s life. Meet Richard Brooks. I’ve changed things around a bit, but this is the life of the man in the hospital. Honor to him for fighting for freedom and all he suffered and learned.

[ http://www.boston.com/bostonglobe/obituaries/articles/2011/06/14/richard_brooks_wwii_pilot_pow_became_telecom_specialist/?page=2 ](http://www.boston.com/bostonglobe/obituaries/articles/2011/06/14/richard_brooks_wwii_pilot_pow_became_telecom_specialist/?page=2)

 

Chapter 46: Your Grace

Molly was waiting for them when they arrived back at 221B and she happily took her goddaughter from John with a loving smile.

“I’ve missed you little bundle,” Molly cooed to her, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Her formula’s in the usual place,” John smiled, “and she’s just had her nappy changed. Bedtimes in ten minutes.”

“Oh, I’ll barely get to see her!” Molly sulked.

“I’m sure we can make an exception, John,” Sherlock stated, though his stance bellied his jovial tone.

“Sherlock, her routine is _important_ ,” John insisted.

“It’s fine,” Molly interrupted before an argument could break out, “You two go on and I’ll see she’s all tucked in.”

“She’s right, John, we have to get going,” Sherlock replied.

“This is the longest I’ve been away from her in a day,” John sighed, kissing her goodbye once more.

“You’re a good mother, John,” Sherlock replied with a warm smile, “Come along now. We mustn’t keep her Majesty waiting.”

XXXXXXXXXX

John was practically shaking as he sat down to tea with the Queen. Sherlock had warned him mentally at least three times not to so much as glance towards her face and John was keeping his eyes timidly on the floor because of it.

“Then the proof is here,” The Queen stated calmly, “We have enough to convict him?”

“We have enough to prove that he is not a dragon, and therefore not subject to the laws of Royalty. We can also prove that he’s been using an alternative identity to run a criminal enterprise while using the laws of Royalty to keep himself out of trouble should anyone even suspect him.”

“None of this gets us close to him. He is in hiding at the moment, being fully aware that my patience with him has passed.”

“I also know the location of his hoard and that we have a legal right to enter it because he has stolen and hidden a painting therein.”

“ _Painting?”_ The Queen repeated, “Paintings are not allowed to be stolen by dragons. They are considered works of art and therefore not subject to the Hoard Laws.”

“Precisely.”

“What is this painting?”

“[ _The Reichenbach Falls by JMW Turner_ ](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BfE7LAEsyFk/TGLIQ2OnJHI/AAAAAAAAAX4/1ufvLThSFm0/s400/P.98.jpg) , stolen from [ Cecil Higgins Art Gallery & Bedford Museum ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cecil_Higgins_Art_Gallery_%26_Bedford_Museum). The head trustee is available to verify that it was stolen, that they saw Moriarty the day the theft occurred, and that the painting is legitimate once we have it in front of us.”

“Moriarty is a very old dragon, he will be difficult to contain once his hoard has been invaded,” The Queen mused, apparently to herself.

“Countess Adler has offered to be of assistance in that regard.”

“Yes, you’re holding something over her apparently.”

“Your majesty is very observant,” Sherlock smirked.

“I’m not stupid, at the very least,” The Queen laughed, “She’d never stick her neck out otherwise; especially where that snake Moriarty is concerned. She’s terrified of him.”

Sherlock’s only reply was a smug smile and John tried his best not to reach out and grope him. It was rather difficult when the man was turning on the charm.

“Your tattoo is lovely,” The Queen commented and John just barely avoided making eye contact. Instead he blushed and studied the floor.

“Thank you, your majesty.”

“It must have taken hours.”

“Over the course of several days, yes. Parts of it were very painful.”

“Such dedication,” She said, her voice slightly breathy, “I remember the first time one of my thralls requested to be marked; it was… a very heady experience.”

“For me as well, your majesty,” John replied, swallowing heavily at the sensual tone in her voice.

“Ask me how many marked thralls I have?”

“H-how many marked thralls do you have?”

“One.”

“One?” John asked in surprise, nearly looking up again.

“Yes. You are precious, John Watson. I myself am married to a dragon and have fourteen thralls in all, but my one bonded thrall, my marked thrall, is worth my entire hoard.”

“That’s…” John swallowed and replied lamely, “That’s a lot.”

“Indeed it is. Quite substantial.”

“Your majesty is implying that Moriarty would trade his hoard for Moran,” Sherlock observed.

“And since I have been informed that he has been ordered to kill you on sight, we may have a way to ensure a peaceful appropriation of Moriarty’s hoard.”

“You will use me as bait,” Sherlock stated as though he’d known all along.

“What?!” John asked, jumping to his feet in alarm.

“Once Moran is captured Moriarty will be as docile as a kitten.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that, Your Grace.”

 

Chapter 47: Captain's Voice

I apologize for this chapter. It completely got away with me… I regret nothing.

 

John watched the figure move slightly on the couch in 221B Baker Street. His stomach continued to clench and unclench as he watched the shadows move on the wall. A covert glance out the window showed Lestrade and his Yardees in place on the street. John studied the figure across the street once more and took a deep steadying breath.

_ <Relax. I’m perfectly safe.> _

_Easy for you to say._

_ <Hush, my love.> _

Sherlock’s arms slipped around John’s waist from behind, tugging him away from the window. John relaxed into his taller lover’s body and leaned his head back against his shoulder. He turned his head and breathed in Sherlock’s scent to reassure himself his beloved was safe.

< _You’re being ridiculous. I’m right here with you. >_

_Where he’s going to be. Any second now. To shoot at an image of you. I want him dead. Very dead._

_ <You’ll have him in handcuffs, is that close enough?> _

_No._

_ <He might go to the floor above or below us, you know? Get captured by someone else.> _

_I’ll never forgive them. I want him on the floor whimpering in fear._

_ <My sexy soldier. I want you.> _

_Now?_

_ <Against this wall.> _

_Now?_

_ <Can you think of a better time?> _

_When we AREN’T waiting for a homicidal killer?_ John worried, but Sherlock’s hand was in his trousers already and he was hardening fast.

John’s trousers were dropped down around his knees and Sherlock had pressed his own cock between his arsecheeks and was slowly thrusting up. John was eagerly pushing up into Sherlock’s hand when the man decided he wanted quite a bit more and dropped down to his knees to press his face between John’s flesh.

_Bloody hell, Sherlock!_

_ <I hear him on the stairs. Here’s your gun.> _

John fumbled with the weapon, slipped the safety off, and pulled the wheeled screen in front of them so Moran wouldn’t see them immediately. The floor creaked as the man walked across the floor and knelt by the window. John could see him now, but his eyes were focused outside the window as he quickly assembled the sniper rifle. John leaned forward a bit and Sherlock plunged into his tongue inside his hole to loosen it further. John bit his lip to hold back a moan. Sherlock’s tongue was hot and long, so unbelievably long and _probing_ him deeper and deeper.

_This is definitely keeping me from being freaked out about the wax bust of you he’s about to blow to smithereens._

_ <I’m going to blow something, too, you know.> _

_You need to spend less time around Lestrade. That sort of filthy talk isn’t very becoming when coming from such a suave and debonair man’s mind._

_ <How about… I’m going to pleasure your body until you spill yourself into my hand with my name on your lips?> _

Sherlock was up to two fingers now, carefully avoiding John’s prostate to keep him from shouting out, and Moran leveled the gun onto his shoulder. There was a moment of stillness, and then he pulled the trigger and a tinkling of glass accompanied the muffled shot from the silenced rifle. He smirked to himself and began to take the gun apart.

John cleared his throat.

“What the… fucking hell!” Moran gaped at Sherlock and John, who calmly covered his bits with one hand (and arm) while pointing the gun at Moran with the other.

“Away from the rifle, against the wall, and do me the favor of turning around? I’m not an exhibitionist,” John smirked.

“Is he eating your arse out while you point a gun at me?”

“He’s mostly fingering me right now, but his tongue is involved, yes.”

“Your dragon actually… bloody hell, you lucky bastard!”

“Uh-huh. Turn around,” Moran griped, but did as told, “Hands where I can see them, and don’t think for a second my reactions are slowed… or do, because I’d much rather kill you than take you hostage. Oh, and if you’re relaying this to Moriarty, might want to point out that we’re planning on meeting him at his hoard, so he needn’t head over here first. Save himself the trip.”

“The last think I’m doing is telling him I’m being held hostage while you get fucked by a snarky detective!”

“Mmm, snarky detective,” Sherlock muttered against his arse, then stood up and started to push in while John tried his best to spread his legs further while the trousers still held his ankles captive. Sherlock couldn’t have been comfortable with his knees half bent to accommodate for John’s height difference, but it clearly wasn’t daunting him as he groaned throatily.

“Mph, like that? My snarky detective,” John panted as Sherlock slid into his opening with more burn than usual due to the lack of lubricant.

“It’s more fun when he says it,” Sherlock pouted as he kissed John’s neck and just below his ear.

“Mmm, s’nice… Tell him you think he’s snarky,” John barked, and then gasped when Sherlock gave him a particularly hard thrust.

“I think he’s a pompous, egotistical, psychopath with a god complex!” Moran snapped.

“Changed my mind. You ordering. Hot.” Sherlock panted.

“Get down on the floor and give me twenty,” John barked, using his best Captain’s voice.

“Fuck you!” Moran snapped.

Sherlock moaned and began to snap his hips faster, gripping John’s hips hard.

John fired a shot off to the side, an inch from where Moran’s hand touched the wall, and the man yelped and dropped to the floor, pounding out twenty push-ups with fast military precision.

“Someone’s still in practice,” John panted.

“Gods, that’s hot!” Sherlock gasped, gripping John’s cock and fisting it firmly, “Give him another order. Your voice! Fuck! _Growl it_.”

“Uhn, sit-up. Do sit-ups. Fourty!” John snarled.

“Fucking perverts!” Moran snapped.

“Eyes to yourself!” John barked, and Moran flushed red and looked away again as he flipped over and began doing sit-ups, Sherlock was stroking his prostate so perfectly that John could feel it up and down his entire spine, “Fuck, I’m close!”

“Jooohn,” Sherlock moaned, and came hard inside of him while gripping the base of his cock to keep him from climaxing as well.

“Sherlock! What the hell?!”

Sherlock pulled out, scrambled around him while tugging his pants up, dropped to his knees, and swallowed John down with a hungry moan.

“Lucky son of a bitch!” Moran swore.

“Eyes to yourself!” John snapped.

Sherlock moaned and then deepthroated him and John came with a grunt down his throat.

“Gods, I love you,” John panted while Sherlock lovingly tucked him back into his pants.

“I worship you,” Sherlock purred, “You’re everything to me.”

“You’re just saying that because it makes Moran jealous,” John purred.

“I’m also saying it because it’s true,” Sherlock smirked, pressing a kiss to John’s belly before tucking his shirt back in for him, “The Queen spoke the truth, I’d trade my hoard for you.”

“I like you like this. I’m going to have to hold someone hostage during sex more often.”

“Don’t make me hard again. I need my energy to defeat Moriarty,” Sherlock chuckled.

 

CHAPTER 48

 

Mycroft hesitated. That was something that he wasn’t familiar with doing to the extent that he didn’t recall the last time it had happened- perhaps it never had before. Now, however, with his fingers on the send button, he was hesitating. Gregory was on a case at the moment, a very personally important case, and he couldn’t afford distractions, but at the same time Mycroft was fairly certain that the unsaid words between them _were_ a distraction and that if he didn’t say them _right now_ he was going to lose his nerve and find a way to justify never saying them at all.

So.

Send.

**Gregory, I owe you an infinite number of apologies, but through a text message is not the way to convey them sincerely. I beg you for another chance. Meet me tonight at Le Cercle, 1 Wilbraham Place, so I can show you that I am fully reformed and prepared to meet your standards. – M**

**Busy now. Meet you there 9P. – GL**

Mycroft blew out his air in relief. It was entirely possible bothering him while he was guarding their ‘owner’s’ life was a good thing. He was too busy to over think the situation. Still, he’d probably have to apologize for that as well. He’d start by _not_ texting him until later.

XXXXXXXXX

Sebastian was desperate. After watching the absolutely _stunning_ display of love making between the dragon and his thrall that old ache in him had been awakened. Once upon a time he and Jim had been lovers, too. They’d laughed and loved with the best of them; sure it had been over some seriously sick shit, but that was what made them _fun._ Then the kids had happened. One after another, a year apart each, and they’d been _beautiful_. Until Jim had tested their blood and realized there wasn’t a single chance of any of them turning into dragons _ever._ Then he’d been disgusted with them and one day Sebastian had returned from sniping a mob boss for him to find the mansion childless, everything gone down to the last dummy gone, and his lover sitting on his couch with a new thrall kneeling at his feet and a smirk on his face.

“Meet the mayor of the town. I’ve had an idea, Seb, and a _brilliant_ idea. We’re going to take over the world. One slave- by which I mean _thrall_ \- at a time!”

Aside from Sebastian’s broken heart over the loss of his beautiful babies, not much had changed at first. They still killed together, fucked together, and laughed together. Gradually, all of that had slowed down until Sebastian saw him for only seconds a day as he obsessed over his army of thralls. They rarely had sex anymore, and when they did it was hurried and unfulfilling with Sebastian rarely ever climaxing; a few quick thrusts of Jim’s hips, down his throat or into his barely-prepared arse, and then he was off to conquer the world.

The thing was, Sebastian didn’t miss _Jim_ anymore he missed the love they’d once shared. He was relegated to ‘just another thrall’ rather than the bonded he had once been. Was it possible for a bond to dissolve? For the brief hour he’d been Holmes’ thrall when Jim had taken Watson he hadn’t even cared about Jim anymore. He’d vaguely missed him, in they way someone missed a favorite item, but he hadn’t _loved_ him anymore. Looking back, while they’d fucked like rabbits after he’d been re-claimed Sebastian hadn’t felt any _closer_ to him. He hadn’t felt that tight connection he’d felt before: he hadn’t felt _owned_.

_Our bond_ is _broken, and Jim hasn’t even noticed_.

“What are you so deep in thought about?” Watson asked.

Sebastian looked up in annoyance, but bit his lip on the nasty comment he was prepared to lash out at the midget. If he was going to get out of the nightmare situation he was in, then he had to woo the bonded as well as the dragon. It wasn’t uncommon for a dragon to have several lovers in addition to their bonded, or even to have more than one bonded. If he played his cards right- and no one knew cards like Sebastian- he could be the one with a talented tongue up his arse.

“Just contemplating my place in the world and trying to figure out when it went all wrong.”

“Probably around the point you threatened my bonded,” Watson replied with narrowed, unforgiving eyes.

“You think that was my idea? It was my bonded- my _former_ bonded- that made me do these things.”

“Former?” Watson asked.

“When Holmes stole me for a bit to trade for you he broke my bond. Jim never re-instated it. He doesn’t care about me. No matter what I try to do, no matter how hard I try to please him, it’s never enough. He doesn’t love me anymore.”

“Bonds can be broken?” Watson asked, looking almost panicked as he glanced towards Holmes.

“Yes,” Holmes answered for Sebastian, “Which was why I took the time to re-bond with you after you were returned to me.”

To Sebastian’s aching jealousy, Holmes stepped away from his conversation with Det. Lestrade and walked over to reassure John by petting his hair and pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“My strong soldier,” Holmes purred, his eyes sparking with lust despite their wild sex only an hour earlier.

Sebastian frowned and tugged on his handcuffed arms, wriggling until he was on his knees before both men.

“Please. If Jim goes to jail I’ll be forced to visit him daily or go through withdrawal and _die_.”

“Oh, he isn’t going to jail,” Holmes sneered, “He’s going to _hang_. It won’t be long before I can show the Queen that he is guilty of treason.”

_Well if that isn’t a perfect in, I don’t know what is_.

“I can help you with that,” Sebastian agreed, “I know everything about his organization. _Everything._ I’ll tell you… if you make me your thrall, too.”

Holmes threw his head back and laughed, “Well this is rich! A betrayal by a thrall! I’m not sure if I should point out the inevitability due to Moriarty pushing himself too far with his collection of slaves, or if I should assume you’re spying for him!”

“If you make me your thrall, I _can’t_ spy for him. It’s only him stretching himself so far that gives me the freedom I have. I could be yours,” Sebastian leaned forward and nuzzled the inseem of Holmes’ trousers just a few inches below his crotch, “I’m _starved_ for attention. I’d do _anything_ for it.”

“Don’t be a whore,” Holmes sneered, though he didn’t push Seb aside, “I have no use for whores. They’re too easily bought and sold.”

“Shelrock,” Watson said softly, “Could you… ah…”

“I’m a marksman, you know. Best in big game in all India, Australia, _and_ the Arctic.”

“Not to mention London,” Watson snorted, “Is it normal to call people ‘big game’?”

“I suppose you _could_ be useful…” Holmes began as Sebastian worked his way higher and nuzzled the outline of the man’s limp dick.

Watson’s growl was all the warning he got before the man yanked Sebastian away from Holmes’ crotch by his hair. He had no way to break his fall as he was tossed down to the floor and landed painfully on his shoulder. He swore angrily, but it went practically unnoticed by anyone in the room due to the screaming match going on between Watson and Holmes.

“I’m sick of this, Sherlock! You spend all your time either reassuring me that I’m important to you, or talking about taking other thralls! First it was Mary, then Molly and Irene, now _this?!”_

“John, now wait just a…”

“NO! I’m sick of it Sherlock! You! Are! MINE!”

Watson pushed Sherlock up against the wall of the interrogation room and silenced him with a demanding kiss. Detective Lestrade stepped forward as if to intervene, but quickly stepped away again with a blank look on his face.

_The detective’s a bloody thrall?! Why the fuck didn’t Jim tell me? That bastard!_

“Sir?” The DI’s Anglo-African PC questioned him in alarm.

Lestrade gave his head a shake and made a face, “Sorry, Sally, he compelled me again. Bloody bastard doesn’t want me interfering.”

“So we just stand here…?”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before. You can go if you want. I’ll just get Moran out of here.”

Sally fled, but when Lestrade tried to remove Sebastian he was compelled to stop again and huffed down into a chair in disgust.

“Guess he wants you to watch,” Lestrade snorted, “He’s such a fucking exhibitionist.”

“John, just…” Holmes tried again, but Watson was tugging the man’s trousers down and had forcefully turned him to face the wall, “ _Ow!_ John! If you don’t calm yourself, I’ll compel you and…”

“You’ve had trouble compelling me for ages, Sherlock,” John growled, “I looked it up. Bonded are harder to compel. I’m your _equal_.”

Sebastian gaped. Watson had one hand pressed against the back of Holmes’ head and was pressing his face into the scratchy, grey painted stone. The other he had slicked up with spit and was using to push two fingers forcefully into the man’s arse.

“ _OW!_ Damn it, John! Get a hold of your…! Oh!” Holmes grunted and thrust back against Watson’s fingers.

“Prostate,” Watson snickered, and bit the detective’s neck.

“Oh, gods, this is so humiliating!” Holmes moaned, but wriggled eagerly despite his words.

“Exhibitionist,” Lestrade snorted again.

“I am _not_ an exhibitionist!” Holmes argued.

“Fuck yeah, you are, and if you want that I’ll bloody _give it to you_!” Watson snarled, turning Holmes around and pushing him to the ground by his hair, “Get it good and wet, Sher, it’s all you’re getting. You’re going to _remember_ who you belong to for the next fucking _week_!”

Holmes moaned and swallowed Watson down. Sebastian swallowed and shifted miserably as his cock tried to stiffen at an odd angle.

“Look, can I get these cuffs off? We’re in the station now.”

“No. Your dragon is too dangerous,” Lestrade grunted, looking at Sebastian rather than the slurping detective or moaning doctor.

“Then can you move my dick to a less _painful_ angle?” Sebastian snapped.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, walked around, and shifted Sebastians cock in his trousers, “You don’t mention that to anyone, yeah? I could have left you.”

Sebastian nodded at that reasonable request, too grateful that he wasn’t being pinched anymore, and re-focused on the free porn in front of him.

XXX

Sherlock was painfully aroused both by John’s physical display and by his overwhelming emotional response- not to mention loving the feel of the thick cock being ruthlessly shoved down his throat. The man was flooding him with arousal, love, fear, anger, jealousy, and above all _possessiveness._ Sherlock _wanted_ to give him the satisfaction of owning him completely that he had somehow failed to give already. Yes, John had to share him with thralls, but not _all_ of him, and he had taken that security from John when he asked to breed Molly. He _needed_ to give it back. Needed to reassure John that he loved him so completely that it left a physical ache.

An ache that was very soon going to be transferred to his body judging by the way John yanked him up, turned him, around, and prepared to fuck him senseless.

XXX

Watson had stood Holmes up and pinned him to the wall again. Sebastian leaned to the side and saw him rubbing the head of his cock across the dragon-man’s entrance as he moaned and wriggled his arse back needily.

“Jim never lets me top him,” Sebastian whispered in shock.

“That sucks,” Lestrade frowned, checking his watch for the third time, “Could you two hurry this up? I’ve got plans tonight!”

“Piss off!” Watson and Holmes snapped, then Watson’s hips shot forward and Holmes screamed in pain.

“Shit, John! You’ll hurt him!” Lestrade stammered, jumping to his feet in alarm.

XXX

Sherlock held out a hand to stop Lestrade from pulling John off of him, he was far too aroused to focus on compelling him, John’s thrust hadn’t hurt so much as shocked, aroused, and alarmed him. He wasn’t used to John being anything but his cuddly, jumper-wearing, sarcastic thrall. Now the man had twice in 24 hours shown him what a strong and powerful man he was and Sherlock was overwhelmed. Once Lestrade stopped trying to interfere he used that hand to reach back and encourage John’s thrusts by gripping his arse tightly with one hand. The angle his arm was at didn’t give him the strength to actually _pull_ John in, but it did tell him he was a willing- and eager- participant and quelled that small niggling thought that was telling John to ease up.

John was thrusting fast and hard into Sherlock’s body, the burn was intense, but so was the pleasure as his prostate- and more importantly his _mind_ \- were stimulated. Sherlock was gasping for breath, his knees buckling from John’s powerful thrusts and the almost unbearable pleasure coursing through his entire being.

XXX

 “Yeah, you fucking _love_ that, don’t you? Mmm, scream again,” Watson ordered, and wrapped his hand around the dragon’s cock to stroke him firmly.

“Fuck! Yes, sir!” Holmes shouted and came explosively across the wall with a choked shout.

Sebastian was shamelessly humping the top of the interrogation table while watching them, and Lestrade turned around in time to see him buck and come hard in his pants.

“Fucking sick,” Lestrade grunted, dropping down into a chair again.

“You liked it,” Sebastian mocked, dropping into his chair with a sigh of relief. It had been so _long_.

Watson was still fucking a groaning Holmes, but he stilled then and grunted out his own orgasm with a few lazy thrusts to milk it. When he pulled out he spread Holmes cheeks, collected a few drops of semen, and wrote what looked to be his initials on his back with them.

“Feel better?” Holmes asked with a snicker.

“A bit, yeah,” Watson grinned amicably, though he looked exhausted.

“You two finished?” Lestrade growled.

“I think so, yeah,” Watson grinned, pulling Holmes’ clothes back into position and kissing him lazily.

“That was painful, John,” Holmes pouted.

“You loved every second,” Watson snorted.

Sebastian was amused to see the look of shameful acknowledgment on Holmes’ face; he nodded sheepishly and pressed a kiss to Watson’s cheek.

“I’m not going to take him as anything close to a lover, John,” Holmes reassured, “But he will die when Moriarty does.”

“As will thousands of others, some of them likely innocent. There’s no way to save them all even if we collect every dragon we know of in England. We don’t even know who they all are!”

“True, but Moran is a very _powerful_ thrall.”

“No, Sherlock. Not ever. Not in our home. Not around Lian. You have a _daughter_ to think of now!”

“I have a brother to think of, too, and Moran would be substantially useful to MI6.”

“Mycroft?” Watson asked, “You want him for Mycroft?”

“Now wait just a gods damned minute!” Lestrade shouted, jumping to his feet, “Mycroft’s mine!”

“Not like that,” Holmes replied, waving him off, “I meant as a soldier.”

“I don’t like it, Sherlock,” John argued, “I won’t agree to it. I’ll pack up Lian and leave.”

Sebastian snorted, but Holmes looked alarmed.

“I know the thrall would transfer to her,” John added, lifting his head, “I realize you need thralls, I won’t stop you taking others, but _not this one._ ”

“Now hear me out, John,” Holmes stated, looking slightly panicked, “Just _temporarily_ , until I can find him another dragon…”

“Irene.”

“No, she only takes females. It’s a rule she has with her husband.”

“I’d like some rules like that. The Queen?”

“Not likely to be interested, despite Moran’s assets. I want to find someone connected to Mycroft.”

“A power play, like you did with Molly. You want to earn him connections by trading a powerful thrall.”

“ _Precisely_.”

Watson tucked his chin to his chest, leaned against the wall, and seemed to consider it: “Yeah. Okay, but he doesn’t come home with us!”

“Not a problem. As my thrall he’ll be freed under my recognizance. He can go with Mycroft for the time being. Let him deal with the wanker.”

“Oi! I’m right here!” Sebastian snapped.

“Shut up,” Watson ordered back.

“I’ll _never_ stop enjoying that,” Holmes smirked.

“You too, then,” Watson added, narrowing his eyes at Holmes, “I’m still not thrilled with you.”

“Once upon a time an orgasm made you sweet and calm for hours,” Holmes sighed in mock sadness.

Watson smirked, his eyes dancing with laughter; “I’ll be sweet and calm when I’m home with my husband and daughter without a madman after us all. Lian is safe, yeah?”

“Completely,” Holmes reassured, pressing a kiss to his lover’s cheek, “Now help me pin down Moran so I can steal him from Moriarty.”

“He’ll still fight?”

“It’s instinctive. You wanted to come back to me, but fought me anyway. He won’t be able to help it… so try not to be _too_ brutal.”

 

 

For those of you that missed it (sorry!) we had a vote after a friend dared me to have Moran beg Sherlock to 'steal him' to be his thrall.

 

Now the votes have been tallied and the results are:

Moran Begging: 7

No Begging: 4

Sherlock Mocking: 5

No Mocking: 2

SherMor Sex Please!: 3 (+1 vote for sex slave)

Sex OK: 2 (+1 Threesome request)

No SherMor Sex: 10

Hell No SherMor!: 10

Mixed Results/Indecisive: 7

 

I also received numerous plot suggestions: 

**Plot Ribbons** **(For people who largely affected the plot) go to:**

unique0987654321  
QuestionableSanity  
WitchRain  
anon  
lubber2kool  
Iridescentkiss  
sighing_selkie  
addicted2fic

**Awards for Epic Suggestions go to:**

unique0987654321 - Kink Award- for being the 1st to suggest angry sex!

Marvaila – Angst Award- for suggesting Lian be used as leverage by Moriarty against Sherlock (I _almost_ used this, but I just couldn’t justify her being left unguarded after John had been snatched.)

**Honerable Mentions** : jademac2442, fanomy, SanityisOverrated, SammiDoLittle, Marvaila (who wins the Angst award), dellpafalla, AriadneVenegas, samia1381

Thank you all, and I apologize if I missed anyone or you missed the voting. Next time!  


CHAPTER 49

Sherlock walked into Mycroft’s home and headed upstairs to the room he had cleaned up and baby proofed for when Lian came over. Mycroft was in there with the baby in a bassinet, smiling as he watched her sleep… with a gun in his hand. That gun rose level with Sherlock’s head when he walked in the door. John instantly drew his and Sherlock had to step in between them to prevent a shoot out.

“Bloody hell,” John gasped as Mycroft lowered the gun.

“You could have warned me you were coming in. I told you I’d be on highest alert,” Mycroft hissed at Sherlock.

“I was trying to block a few things from you. Must have blocked everything,” Sherlock explained.

John pushed passed him- gun safely tucked away- and quickly but gently scooped Lian into his arms. He pressed kisses all over the little girls lax face.

“I’ve placed Moran in your guest room,” Sherlock stated, watching John carefully as he paced back and forth with their child in his arms, whispering soft things to the sleeping babe.

“Why would he… No. Tell me you didn’t _claim_ him?”

“I expect you to find a dragon you wish to form an alliance with- who you also trust- and make them an offer. Moran is powerful since he’s been a thrall for so many decades. He’s also an expert marksman. You’ll be hiring him.”

“What about Moriarty? We were supposed to trade Moran back to him!” Mycroft hissed.

“Change of plans.”

“You don’t change plans when they are made with the _Queen!_ ”

“He begged me not to send him back to Moriarty.”

“Since when do you have _compassion?_ ” Mycroft asked in disgust.

“Since when do you turn down leverage?” Sherlock asked.

“Are you even listening to me?” Mycroft wondered, “You seem distracted.”

“I am.”

“About?”

“John.”

Mycroft glanced at John, who was still rocking and whispering to their child. Mycroft strained to hear and the words alarmed him.

“I won’t let him hurt you, sweet heart. I won’t let anyone harm you. Not ever. I’ll take you far, far away if I have to. They’ll never find us.”

“John?” Mycroft asked in alarm, but Sherlock headed over with wide, frightened eyes.

“John, please don’t leave. Please don’t take Lian from me. I know I’ve been… unreliable lately, but I won’t be again. You can _trust_ me, John. I would never put her life in danger. Or yours. I love you, don’t you still love me?”

“I do, Sherlock, but after what you told me on the way here…”

“I’ve got it under control.”

“What is he talking about?” Mycroft asked in concern, but Sherlock ignored him.

Gregory explained: “Sherlock told us to make sure he stayed ‘stable’ until Moran was transferred out. Apparently their thralls affect dragons more than is commonly known. He thought perhaps Moriarty being a nutter is what led to Moran being a killer, but he already had the urge before Moriarty took possession of him- according to what Sherlock’s read in his mind. Now he’s either got to find a dragon powerful enough to take the bastard on and reform him, or break the thrall and let him kill himself. In the mean time, we have to worry about Sherlock suddenly turning homicidal… and John already threatened to leave him _before_ this all turned up.”

“John hasn’t got a leg to stand on,” Mycroft snarled, “Thralls can’t have custody of their children- only dragons can. He doesn’t even get visitation if Sherlock doesn’t want it… not that he’d survive the thrall being broken anyway.”

John was backing away, eyes wild, but Sherlock held his hand up.

“I’m not going to take her from you. I can’t. It would break your heart. I know I’ve emulated him in the past, but I’m _not_ Moriarty! Mycroft. A document, as legal as you can get this time of night. Something happens to me Lian goes to John and yourself. Lestrade and I will be leaving to stay at Baker Street for the night.”

“Lian is not staying under the roof with that man!”

Sherlock closed his eyes in agony for a moment and then nodded, “You and Lestrade return to Baker Street. Mycroft and I will get things sorted. If I contact you and tell you to get to Mycroft’s side immediately, _you do it._ Promise me, John.”

“I promise,” John replied softly.

“Ahh, I hate to sound selfish but I’ve got two problems with this,” Lestrade piped up.

“They would be?” Sherlock snarled in frustration.

“If something happens to you and I’m not near Lian, I’ll die, so who gets me?”

“I’ll… make arrangements as soon as I can for someone to take you on. Next objection?”

“Good to know where I am in the hierarchy... Also, I had a date tonight with Mycroft.”

Silence.

“Oh,” Sherlock said, looking back and forth between them, “You two worked things out?”

“We were going to,” Mycroft replied stiffly, “Over dinner tonight.”

“That’s… good,” John replied softly.

“I’m afraid you’ll both have to postpone…”

“No. I’ll go home with you, Sherlock. I want you where I can see you,” John replied, still whispering, “Lestrade and Mycroft can have their date here and then deal with Moran… or vice versa.”

“John,” Sherlock sighed, “I want you to feel _safe_.”

“I’ll feel safe when my husband is _my husband_ again.”

“I haven’t acted out of sorts at all, have I?” Sherlock asked, voice raising in frustration.

“You’ve completely changed from the dragon I knew before Afghanistan! How the hell should I know?”

“How have I changed, John? How?”

“Oh, I dunno, you started out asexual and now you want to fuck everything that moves!”

“I’ve no bloody _interest_ in Moran!”

“You’ve an interest in anything with two legs!”

“I’ve an interest in keeping you happy, which you never are!”

“I’d be happy if you were back to your old self again!”

“Oh, so that’s the issue, John? Back to no sex and you wanking off to me stretching in the sun?!”

“No! Damn it! Back to it being just us!”

“Lestrade and Mycroft are my thralls, too, John! Get over it! I can’t get rid of Mycroft, and I don’t want to get rid of Lestrade! You can’t always have your way. Stop being so bloody _selfish_! Besides, you didn’t have an objection to Lestrade when you were buggering him senseless in my hoard!”

“You _bastard_! You-“ John started.

“WHAT?!” Mycroft shouted, giving Lestrade a horrified and hurt look.

“It’s not what it-“

“ _-Compelled_ us to do that!” John snarled.

“-Sounds like!” Lestrade finished.

“It doesn’t sound like you had sexual relations with John?” Mycroft snapped, hands on hips.

“Oh, please!” Sherlock shouted at them all, “As if thralls having sex is anything shocking! Lestrade needed comfort after that _stunt_ you pulled, and John was aroused while I was busy with the egg. It was mutually satisfying; I even got to watch. No harm done!”

“Except to _us!_ ” John argued.

“You weren’t complaining when he was moaning underneath you!” Sherlock snarled.

“I’m not complaining! I don’t regret it! I’m _sick_ of you throwing it at me!”

“I’m not _throwing_ it at you, it’s a part of our past and it’s going to bloody come up! If you didn’t keep on _harping_ about me as if I’m some sort of _slag…!_ ”

Lian took that moment to let out a wail of abject despair and fear and John froze in horror at what he and the rest had been saying in front of their daughter. Sherlock rushed forward and snatched the miserable child from his arms when John’s consoling failed to calm her. He bounced her gently and snatched up a bottle, swearing when the formula turned out to be cold. He switched over to dragon form- his curled tail cradling Lian like a pair of loving arms- heated the formula with a gust of steam, transformed back to human, checked the temperature, and then pressed the bottle to her mouth.

Lian quieted after whimpering around a few mouthfuls and then was soon calmly sucking away at her bottle.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered to the room at large.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered back.

“Me, too,” Lestrade sighed.

“Same,” Mycroft agreed.

“I don’t want to ruin us, John,” Sherlock whispered, sounding tearful, “Just… tell me what I have to do. Whatever it is I’ll find a way. I can’t lose you and Lian.”

“I don’t want you to give up Greg or Mycroft. I don’t regret the past, I just… I don’t understand it. You went from possessive of me but uninterested to sexually demanding and I don’t know what to do with you. I feel threatened… like any minute now you’ll realize how boring I am and find someone better.”

Lestrade moved across the room, tugged John to a sofa, and put his arms around him. The two thralls leaned into each other for comfort and Mycroft gave into the urge to join them and wrapped a nervous hand around John’s trembling fingers. The doctor squeezed back, and Mycroft relaxed into the unusual role of comforter.

“I won’t, John. You’re my _husband_. If you want me to abstain from sex with anyone else, I will. If you want me to abstain from sex with _you_ , I will.”

“I definitely don’t want that,” John laughed lightly.

“I guess no Jolene?” Sherlock sighed, “I was trying so hard to make you happy, John, what went wrong?”

“Jolene- or any other one-off for that matter- won’t make me happy. You make me happy, Sherlock. It’s just… I guess it’s because you’re so inexperienced and I keep forgetting that. I keep forgetting that you’re completely new to sex and the urges themselves. You’re like a teenager and you want to experiment and experience everything. I guess there are only two ways to handle that.”

“How,” Sherlock asked, facing him finally with hope in his eyes.

“Let you go off and experiment with a few people until you get it out of your system, or be flexible enough to experiment with you,” John replied, pain evident in his voice.

“I don’t want anyone else. I just want you.”

“You have me,” John shrugged, “Am I enough? One bonded and however many thralls you have?”

“Yes.”

“Then I guess I need to be more flexible… literally if that Kama Sutra book is going to be used.”

Mycroft favored them both with a disgusted look and re-claimed his hand from John. Sherlock tried not to wake Lian again by laughing out loud, but it was a near thing. John took his tiny daughter from Sherlock’s arms again, winded her gently against his shoulder, laid her into her car seat, and cleaned up the bit of sick she left on his shoulder without even stirring in her slumber.

“Let’s go home, Sherlock, and leave these two lovebirds to it, yeah?”

“Yes.”

 

[CHAPTER 50-54](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/109686.html)


	11. vincentmeoblinn | DRAGON BLOOD 50-54

CHAPTER 50

Mycroft had to have the servants throw something nice together at the house since they couldn’t very well leave Moran unsupervised. He also had a guard posted outside the sharpshooter’s room, but the man seemed at ease and cheerful.

Gregory looked stunning when he came downstairs after having a shower and dressing in some clothes that Sherlock dropped off for him. His hair was damp and sticking up as though styled, his skin flushed from the hot shower, and his clothing- clearly the best he owned- snug to his form. Sherlock demanded his thralls stay in shape so Gregory had lost a full stone since becoming a thrall. Mycroft felt his face warm as he noted defined abs when the man paused and placed his hands on his hips at the bottom of the stairs.

“So, how do we work this? I suppose you want to know what happened between John and I.”

“Yes. I suppose we had better get the… _unpleasantness_ out of the way.”

“It wasn’t unpleasant. It was beautiful and I don’t regret it for an instant. If I end up with you it won’t happen again, but I’m not sorry he and I made love.”

Mycroft swallowed. So. That was why Sherlock had been unconcerned when he and Gregory hadn’t fallen into bed together. He was willing to share John with the silver-haired detective if all else failed. It was good he knew now what the stakes were, it would allow him to ante up.

“I respect that,” Mycroft replied softly, “Understand that my action were an attempt to protect Lian. In retrospect I could have gone about things in a better way, but I was blinded by my desire to have you. I thought to get two birds with one stone.”

“ _Never_ put me up against Sherlock. He’s my dragon. You’ll lose. Every time.”

“I share a similar regard for my brother.”

“Good, then we’re agreed.”

“Quite.”

There was a pause in which one could _feel_ the tension in the room mounting and then Gregory moved suddenly across the room, shoved Mycroft against a wall, and pressed their lips together. They both became wild with lust, tugging each other’s clothes off while nipping lips, ears, and neck. Mycroft groaned as he edged them sideways, knocking over a decorative table, which dropped something glass onto the floor. He crunched over the shattered item without caring, fumbled with the doorknob to his study, and they both toppled into an unceremonious heap on the floor. Gregory kicked the door shut and then kicked his shoes off before grasping Mycroft’s ankles and yanking his off. Both their trousers followed, then both their pants. Before Mycroft could gasp out his name the silver-haired detective was on him again, grasping both their aching erections in a spit-slicked hand and giving them a strong tug.

XXX

Gregory watched in bliss as Mycroft’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. The auburn haired man writhed and moaned beneath him, hips thrusting up into his hand as he pleasured them both. It was breathtaking to see the aristocrate come apart in his hands once more, and certainly something he had thought was out of his reach. With a groan he realize this wasn’t going to be enough for him and dropped down to swallow the man’s thick cock down. Mycroft howled and came down his throat, sobbing out his name in unbridled pleasure. Gregory flipped him over the instant he went slack, spat on his hand to slick his cock up a bit, and thrust between Mycroft’s full buttocks. Mycroft whimpered and lifted his hips, though if it was to enjoy the friction of the bottom of Gregory’s cock sliding against his twitching hole or to lift his sensitive prick off the floor, Gregory wasn’t sure. Either way, the shift of his hips and the soft sound drove the detective wild and he grunted as he came in a white shower across Mycroft’s back.

“Oh my,” Mycroft gasped.

“Mmm,” Gregory agreed, leaning forward and kissing the man’s shoulder before grabbing a tissue and gently cleaning him up.

“I believe our shirts are in the hall.”

“I’ll get em in a sec.”

“You’re very well hung,” Mycroft breathed.

“That scare you?” Greg chuckled, “I’ve only ever bottomed and I loved it. We can do that if you like.”

“It doesn’t _scare_ me,” Mycroft scoffed in annoyance, “It was merely an observation that for your height and weight ratio your penis is surprisingly well endowed.”

Gregory scoffed and gave Mycroft a playful swat on the bum before standing and tugging his bottoms and shoes back on. Mycroft crawled over to the leather sofa and dragged himself onto it, still a bit breathless from his overwhelming orgasm. Gregory gave his naked body an appreciative glance and then went to fetch the remainder of their clothes. They had both finished tucking themselves back in when a soft knock on the study door announced that dinner was served.

“Perfect timing,” Mycroft smiled, offering Gregory his arm, “Shall we?”

“Hell, yeah. I’m starved.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes at Gregory’s uncouth words and they headed to the dinning hall in comfortable silence.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock and Irene landed on the edge of the tallest precipice of Reichenbach Falls. Irene’s wings wrapped around her shivering form and Sherlock shrank down rather than transform, flying his coat over to Irene who took it gratefully and put it on backwards to keep her warm without hindering her wings. Sherlock perched on her shoulder.

“Through the falls, you said?” Sherlock nodded and Irene leaned down and stared into the water, “Oh! I see it!”

Irene gathered up the coat and then launched off the edge, gliding down and through the frigid water. They emerged on the other side where she shook herself off. The coat had barely gotten wet, having been tucked beneath her wings, and she held it close now. Sherlock turned his head and puffed out some hot steam to warm his body, and then they both looked down into the very wet cavern. It was pitch black.

Entering a dragon’s hoard was suicidal; only the dragon that owned it could know where each pitfall and trap lay. They both were aware of this, but Irene had fears to face and Sherlock needed his family to be safe. They moved along slowly, dodging traps as they went. Sherlock purposely triggered a few that he was certain were not alarmed so that they wouldn’t have to avoid them again should they need to beat a hasty retreat. Finally they emerged into the soft glow of the hoard chamber. For a dragon, gold radiated a faint inner light; this was simply how they viewed it on their visible spectrum. Across the pile of gold Moriarty was stretched, soft keening noises leaving his throat as he lay there. He was clearly in pain. Sherlock knew why and transformed to stand proudly by Irene’s side.

“Surrender. You won’t have Moran back, but you will be spared an execution.”

The figure on the pile of gold transformed and glared at them angrily, his naked body slim to the point of starvation as many dragons were.

“Why should I, Sherlock? You’ve brought me nothing to trade this time.”

“I have, actually,” Sherlock smirked, and with a glance around the room he quickly teleported to the case where the painting was protected from the damp of the chamber. Sherlock used a scaled elbow to break the glass and held the lighter from the palace up beneath it, flicking it on.

Moriarty roared in outrage, standing on his hind legs and bellowing loud enough to stir debris from the ceiling. Sherlock smiled up at him.

“Moran thinks you gave them up because you were disappointed that they weren’t dragons, but that wasn’t it was it? You loved each of your children. You gave them up so they could have a normal life, the normal life your grandfather _denied_ you. It shortened their lives, of course. They’d have lived as long as thralls if they had been able to stay in your presence, but you wanted them to have one short _good_ life, as opposed to one long _miserable_ one. When did you realize you couldn’t provide a stable home for them? Was it the first time you hit one of them? Or experimented on one? Or did you have to hit rock bottom first.”

Moriarty growled low down in his throat and then transformed back and gave Sherlock a furious glare, “What would you know? You: with your fairy tale marriage, and your pretty thralls, and your perfect _dragon_ daughter. Do you know what it’s like to look around you and realize your children are _boring_? _Average?_ I sent them to where they belonged.”

“Yet you still treasure them. You immortalized them in your mind. Do you know your eldest remembers? Your daughter? She stood there on the ledge looking over Reichenbach Falls, barely over five, watching you try to decide if you should drown them all or give them up. In the end it was the woman and her husband hiking on the trail that decided it. Your daughter says she begged you for hours on end to spare the children. Was her memory exaggerated?”

“Two hours,” Moriarty replied softly, “She begged me for two hours. She had such a pretty voice. She promised to read them stories about dragons every night. Fairy tales. I love fairy tales. Especially the Grimm ones.”

“To commemorate them you stole this painting. It is the most important thing in your hoard, more important than the gold that you heated their eggs within. More important than their mother who you _intentionally_ did not re-bond with.”

“Sebastian was a weakness. I had to cut him loose. I took him back from you out of respect for what we had, but I didn’t reinstate the bond. He never did forgive me for taking his babies away. You can make a thrall love you, but you can’t stop them from hating you.”

“So what is your decision, Moriarty? Will you cut this last reminder of your children loose? Will I burn the painting? Or will you surrender.”

Moriarty walked slowly towards where Sherlock stood, staring sadly at the painting in it’s broken case as the lighter flickered beneath it.

“I will get you for this, Sherlock. I owe you a fall. _I owe you._ ”

“Quite the opposite, I’m afraid. The runed handcuffs, Irene.”

Irene clapped a pair of silver handcuffs on Moriarty’s wrists, their runes glowing faintly in the darkness. The material the runes were carved out of would prevent Moriarty from transforming while he was in them. It was more science than magic, but the gypsies were still the only ones who knew how to craft them so Sherlock had been forced to put up with their chanting and superstition. Sherlock flicked the lighter off, plunging them into darkness, transformed into his dragon form, snatched Moriarty and Irene both up, and teleported straight to the palace.

 

CHAPTER 51

A reader was asking some astute questions today and it reminded me that I really haven’t explained that much about thralls and dragons in a bit, so several things are answered in today’s chapter.

 

Sherlock presented Moriarty and the painting to the Queen, proof enough that Moriarty had broken laws that even dragons were punishable for.

“I can prove more given time. I have his former bonded as my thrall, though he’ll be moving on to another dragon soon enough.”

“You will have a difficult time placing him,” The Queen stated with a little moue of her lips, “He is quite… damaged.”

“I am aware,” Sherlock nodded, “But it isn’t often a thrall over a century old becomes available. Given to the right dragon, he’ll be quite the asset. They merely have to re-mold him a bit.”

The Queen laughed outright, “You make it sound as if that were easy!”

“It can be. The longer a thrall is with a dragon the more malleable their minds become, which is their inherent power. Moran needs to be broken and re-built, but once done he will be an asset rather than a burden as a new, untrained thrall would be.”

“You speak of that which you know so little of. Very well, do with him as you please.”

“My rights?” Sherlock asked.

“Consider yourself a member of the royal family now,” The Queen nodded, “Not that you didn’t _already_ do whatever you wanted. Not to mention you are advocating that dragons be subjected to human laws.”

“I think you already agree that it is for the best. We both know stealing a painting is just the first of many charges against James Moriarty.”

“You wish to keep him in prison long enough to break the thralls, is that it?”

“Yes.”

“You intend to weaken him.”

“He weakened himself by taking on too many thralls. Thralls only strengthen you when you have the proper amount and their personality is compatible with your own. Otherwise they become a maddening whisper inside your head that distracts and disturbs.”

“You speak as one who has had such an experience.”

“I have… now,” Sherlock replied, rubbing his temple in discomfort, “The sooner Moran is out of my mind the better. Perhaps I will do his new owner a favor and break him myself.”

“It would certainly increase his value,” The Queen replied with a nod.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

John was soaking in the tub with his daughter draped over his chest, sleeping peacefully in the warm bathroom. He had wanted a shower, but he didn’t want to leave Lian alone or out of his eyesight for even a second so he’d washed his bits in the sink and then settled for a soak in the tub. He couldn’t explain his heightened paranoia since Moran had been enthralled, but he assumed it had something to do with the former colonel. He was on edge, his gun within reach at all times, though the safety stayed on since he had Lian nearby. True, she wasn’t grasping much just yet, but a baby and a gun were still a combination that gave him nightmares; he’d seen far too much in Afghanistan.

John wondered over Sherlock. He loved the dragon and wanted to spend the rest of his life with him. He might even want more kids. He’d go through the pain of laying an egg again to have another little Lian. He was happy with Greg, truly didn’t regret their intimate moment, and was adjusting to Mycroft being in the picture more than he had been before. He was glad Sherlock had made amends with his brother and was thrilled Mycroft and Greg were going to make a go at it. He thought they’d be very happy together, and it took Greg out of the running as a lover for him; as much as he’d treasured the experience he was much happier with monogamy.

John felt a bit of heat that had nothing to do with the tub water and groaned. He stood with his fussy baby tucked against his neck, unplugged the tub with his toes, and switched on the shower. Once he was sure it wouldn’t burn them, he stepped beneath enough to wash the wee from his torso and Lian’s bum. John drapped a towel around them- well mostly around Lian- and headed out the door and towards their bedroom. He didn’t think he’d be able to sleep without Sherlock in the bed, so he dressed them both quickly and carried a gurgling Lian out to the kitchen. He made a pot of tea one-handed, automatically making two cups and then fought back his frustration when he realized he’d put too much water on.

Warm arms wrapped around him from behind and John leaned backwards into Sherlock. He had his housecoat on- the flat was rather chilled- and was nuzzling John’s neck lovingly.

“You’re a beautiful mother, John. There’s no more beautiful sight than you and our child.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere. Tell me Moran is gone?”

“You know he isn’t.”

“ _When?”_

“As soon as possible. I promise you.”

“Your mind is buzzing. I don’t think I can sleep tonight. Thank gods Lian isn’t a thrall, she’d be terrified if she could hear your mind… she can’t can she?”

“No. Children can’t be enthralled, their minds are too… fluid.”

“But she could _have_ a thrall.”

“Yes, but it isn’t necessary so long as one of us is alive. I plan on finding a suitable friend for her to be her first thrall, but that won’t be for many years.”

“I have so many questions. I’ve never really sat down and asked you, I’ve just looked it up myself, but I’m running out of resources.”

“You can ask me anything.”

“It’s possible to have more than one bonded?”

“Yes, but I don’t want anyone else.”

“Good. Yeah. I’ve heard conflicting things about thralls. Are they good for dragons? Bad?”

“Good and bad. A good thrall is someone who complements the dragon’s personality, but when a thrall is first enthralled they create a drag on the dragons thought process. Depending on how alike they are, that drag can strain them for years to decades. Mycroft strains me, but you and Lestrade do not. Mary was a bad choice; I only picked her because you were enamored. She made my mind confused and frustrated. Moran is doing the same.”

“Is that why you called him a powerful thrall? Because he’s strong enough to fight you?”

“No… more powerful is actually a misleading statement. He’s more _malleable_ because he’s been with a dragon long enough to weaken his natural psychic barrier in his mind. Once broken, he would create almost no drag at all on a dragon. He shouldn’t even _need_ to be broken, but he is mentally unstable.”

“Am _I_ a powerful thrall?”

“Not yet, but after a few decades together you will be.”

“Do you need Moran? If you break him, do you want to keep him?”

“No. I could slowly bend his personality to match mine, but there would always be a latent memory of his killings. He’s meant to be with a different dragon, someone military based or in politics.”

“Have you an idea who?”

“Mycroft thinks a Korean dragon chum of his will do. The fellow is a General and quite high up on the political ladder. By enthralling him to that friend they secure an alliance, a sort of contract between that dragon and myself for handing over a thrall-and through me the Queen of England. Mycroft wants to keep him close, though, so he’s looking for another alternative, but that one might be the most advantageous.”

“How are you going to break him?”

“Press on his mind until I force out memories of Moriarty and any crimes Moran has committed. It has the potential to damage him permanently, but the positives out way the negatives. Once his mind has been ‘purged’ he’ll be so moldable that nearly any dragon could have him, though the base personality never truly disappears- nor would you want it to.”

“How does that whole age lengthening thing work?” John wondered, putting the idea of wiping parts of Moran’s mind aside.

“The same way my healing ability does,” Sherlock shrugged, “I’m not keeping you young so much as I’m healing you. The sad part is that if Moriarty had kept his children close to him they would have aged slower, not as slowly as a thrall, but slower.”

“That’s… awful.”

“They all had long happy lives, full of marriage and children. They’re simply normal. It’s much more sad for Moran and Moriarty since they didn’t have the strength to deal with it.”

“If Lian isn’t a dragon…”

“She is.”

“If she wasn’t, or our next child isn’t…”

“I would _never_ take your children from you. Never. I’d rather die than harm you like that,” Sherlock squeezed him gently.

John finished preparing the tea the way they each liked and Sherlock took his own cup into the sitting room while John followed after with his and Lian.

“She’s been sleeping long?”

“Yeah, I don’t think she slept well with Mycroft. She missed us.”

“They usually need their Mummy’s close by at that age.”

“I hate to be away from her. Ever.”

“That’s good. You’ve bonded well with her,” Sherlock smiled softly and John snuggled into his side on the couch.

“I want us to grow old together… however long that takes. I want to watch Lian have thralls and children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren…”

“That’s a lot of nappies.”

John chuckled.

They sat in comforting silence for a time, Lian limp across their laps with a dummy in her mouth as her parents sipped tea and thought quietly about their lives.

“I want to go visit Mary,” John decided softly, “I need to say goodbye and… and forgive her.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

 

CHAPTER 52

OK, so I was really struggling with this next chapter, but then I had a nightmare last night and figured why not apply it to this story? Because at the end of the day a dream started this one, so a dream should continue it.

This chapter dedicated to Okomirose and Marvaila who suggested two of the major plot points in this chapter. Also dedicated to my muse, Navi, for giving me nightmares again -.-

There were a couple of others who also made suggestions that showed up in here, but because I didn’t intend to use them I didn’t write them down and now I can’t recall your names L Message me and I’ll make sure you get credit for your brilliance.

 

It was beautiful and mystical, just like John had expected a secret Chinese circus to be. He leaned into Sherlock’s arms, smiling as the acrobat (dancer?) swung and twisted above them on long silk scarves. It was mesmerizing and he almost didn’t notice the woman in the beautiful chuānzhuó walking up to them.

“You have a lovely daughter,” The woman stated, her smile wide as she bobbed slightly, “Might I hold her?”

“Oh, ah, thanks, but no. I don’t let anyone hold her. Sorry, it’s nothing personal, just a bad experience once.”

“You are a protective parent,” The woman soothed, “That is a beautiful thing.”

“Thanks,” John smiled, and then turned his attention back to the scene before him.

The woman faded back into the crowd and John thought nothing of it. Sherlock frowned in the direction the woman retreated towards, but when John glanced up at the worried feelings emanating from his lover he received a slight shake of his head in reply. They both turned their attention towards the scene before them as the woman stepped up to introduce the next ‘trick’ to be performed that night.

It wasn’t until they got home that John started seeing an odd reaction in Lian. She was distressed: squirming in her blanket, scratching at her face, and whimpering piteously. John tried to soothe her in the usual ways, but she rejected her bottle and spat out her dummy. Her favorite songs, sung by Sherlock’s rich voice, were useless and she was entirely miserable an hour later. While John walked her back and forth in the living room, Sherlock called the pediatricians 24 hour line and waited for a return call. When the return call came, Sherlock had to step into another room to hear the doctor over Lian’s piteous screaming.

XXX

“There’s a nasty bug going around,” The pediatrician explained, “It’s quite painful and can lead to some severe symptoms. I’m going to call in a prescription for you, but you _must_ get it right away. You can bring her in tomorrow morning, first thing, and if she doesn’t have it then we’ll just stop the anti-biotics. It’s much less risky that way for this particular illness, but I’m not inclined to send you to a hospital on a whim. Do you have an all night pharmacy near you?”

“Not nearby, but I can get there,” Sherlock replied, feeling anxiety well up in him at the thought of his precious child being dangerously ill.

“Excellent, the number?”

Sherlock headed out into the living room, shouted to John the instructions he’d been given by the doctor over Lian’s screaming, and teleported to the pharmacy across town. Sherlock headed into the pharmacy and informed the technician that he needed a prescription filled immediately.

“My daughter may have that flu that’s going around. I need you to drop whatever pointless task you’re performing and fill her prescription immediately. The doctor’s just called it in.”

The technician looked offended, but he set about searching his computer for the prescription.

“I don’t see anything called in for a Holmes but… Oh, wait, here it is… that’s odd.”

“What is?”

“Well, not only is there no dangerous infant flu going around that I heard of, but this isn’t a prescription. It’s… oh my gods.”

“What?” Sherlock demanded, dread welling up inside of him.

“It’s a message. It says: Do not return to your home or your husband and child will be killed immediately. Go to the parking lot. You have crimes to pay for Mr. Holmes.”

XXX

John headed into the bathroom to draw Lian a cool bath as the instructions he’d been given by Sherlock had stated. While in there he felt her forehead and shook his in confusion. She didn’t feel feverish. Warm from screaming, yes, but not feverish and certainly not enough to warrant a cold bath that could drop an infant’s temperature to dangerous levels if not needed. Deciding caution was better than panicking and following random instructions, John broke out a thermometer while the tub filled with cool water and held a struggling Lian down on her belly while he slipped it into her rectum. It was a quick thermometer, but as he was reading the results a bit of cold metal pressed against the back of his head. He hadn’t heard their entrance over the sound of running water.

“Do not move, Dr. Watson,” The thickly accented voice demanded, “Your dragon will not save you today.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

Three days. John had been prisoner for three days with Shan simply calling the shots. They were demanding the release of Jim Moriarty from the cell he kept while awaiting trial. The list of his felonies was growing as Moran slowly fed them crime after crime and told them where evidence could be found. The going was slow as Sherlock slowly broke the man of his previous interaction with Moriarty and the thrall came to trust him, but the one thing he hadn’t done was providing them with a list of associates, and that had been their downfall. Shan was a dragon and she had infiltrated their home as easily as she had spoken to John in the warehouse. Apparently she had hoped to enthrall him in that short conversation as she was a very old and powerful dragon, but his link to Sherlock was too strong to be broken without a struggle so she had settled for scoping out her prey instead. She had stolen John’s phone without him knowing and had gotten information from it to use against them and rubbed a toxin onto Lian’s skin to make her ill.

Now John was trapped with his child in his arms. He could already feel the pain of withdrawal as his connection to Sherlock was slowly broken down. He’d become Lian’s thrall, of course, and that meant he had to keep her close at all times or risk his own suicide. Shan knew this and was playing off of it, taunting Sherlock by describing John’s symptoms and how he never left Lian’s side for a moment.

“Biological thralls can not be broken, did you know that Mr. Holmes?” Shan teased over the phone, “Once he is his daughter’s thrall he will be off limits to you forever. He will no longer be your bonded. You had better make your decision quickly, Mr. Holmes.”

John was in agony, his hands shaking as he changed the last of Lian’s diapers. Shan hadn’t allowed them to have outside contact so he was unable to get her more diapers. He was also out of formula for her and had switched to the cow’s milk in the fridge. It had made her constipated and she was even more miserable than before. John was worried about the rash that the toxin Shan had dosed her with had left on her cheek, but the woman refused to do anything remotely concerning their health.

“Please!” John begged, “If she dies you’ll have nothing on Sherlock because I’ll kill myself regardless of whether or not the thrall’s broken! She’s my _daughter_.”

Shan smirked and held out the phone to John, it was calling Sherlock’s number. It was the first time he’d been allowed to speak to his husband in three days. His voice, when it answered, sent a shiver through John’s body as the thrall tried to renew just from the sound.

“What the fuck do you want now, Shan? I told you I’m trying.”

“Sherlock,” John gasped, the pain agonizing.

“John! John, listen carefully to my voice. I love you. I’m going to get you both out of there.”

“Lian is sick, starving, and filthy. Get us out now.”

“John, I can’t just…”

“ _Do it_. If you love either of us, just do it, Sherlock. Please.”

“I… I… I will. I will, John. Tell her I’ll do it now.”

John relayed his words, sorry that they caused her to snatch back the phone.

A few minutes later Sherlock teleported to the stoop of 221B with Moriarty on his arm and a miserable look on his face. He walked the criminal up the stairs and traded him for John and Lian. Moriarty smirked at them and Shan teleported them both out with a sneer and a cryptic response. John looked at Sherlock in surprise and saw his eyes widen in shock at her words as she looked him brazenly in the eyes and said:

“Goodbye, _grandson_.”

 

CHAPTER 53

Sherlock clearly wanted to pace, but it was too important that he maintain eye and physical contact with John to reinforce their bond.

“If I was just stronger, if I were _older_ , I would have been able to enthrall Moriarty and _make_ him give you both back,” Sherlock growled angrily.

Lestrade was pacing in a corner of the interrogation room at New Scotland Yard. Mycroft was on his way with a very good lawyer. Sherlock’s recent lobbying that dragons should be held accountable for their actions was nipping him in the butt now that he’d broken a criminal out of prison. Where a month ago such an action would have resulted in most people rolling their eyes and saying ‘dragons will be dragons’, now Sherlock was being pulled through the ringer with the press.

John shifted Lian in his arms and Lestrade offered to take her. He gratefully turned her over to her godfather.

“I never thought I’d get sick of holding her,” John admitted guiltily, “But I haven’t slept more than a few hours these last few days. Sherlock, I can’t keep my eyes open much longer.”

“Just a few more minutes, John.”

They’d been to the hospital first, where Lian was washed and given an antihistamine and a round of steroids since the toxin was long out of her system. John had been allowed to shower as well, which he was eternally grateful for. Lian had been fed, and they’d rushed through the discharge portion in order to get them to prison so Sherlock wouldn’t appear to be resisting arrest; the fact was he wouldn’t be separated from Lian and he _couldn’t_ be separated from John.

“Sherlock,” John whimpered, and simply fell asleep where he sat.

Sherlock tugged his exhausted husband into a straddle in his lap and laid the man’s head down on his shoulder.

“John, my dear John. My strong soldier, mother of my child, beautiful lover, brilliant doctor,” Sherlock chanted softly as he rocked the man in his arms from side to side.

“Gods, this is _awful_ ,” Lestrade groaned, dropping into John’s abandoned chair and leaning forward to put his head against the man’s back while keeping Lian tucked tightly to his chest.

Sherlock reached out and petted Lestrade’s hair lovingly. His thralls were all precious to him, and he’d been leaning very hard on Lestrade while John had been captive. He’d even laid in Lestrade’s bed with him, though Sherlock hadn’t slept a wink the entire time. He was tired as well, but too strained to relax. John had spent the last three days on a rather intense adrenal high and was now crashing, but Sherlock was still riding the wave.

Mycroft practically stormed the room at that moment, but his entrance didn’t even make John’s eyelids flutter. Lestrade stood with a relieved cry and threw himself at the man, who snogged him possessively contrary to his usual decorum, and then introduced the lawyer. Sherlock shook the man’s hand awkwardly, his body thrumming with the intense urge to get up and _move_ , but he had to hold John.

“This is quite the mess,” Sherlock sighed, “If the police hadn’t been so incompetent we might not be here.”

“Exactly what I plan to argue. Your child’s life and your way of life with your husband were in serious danger; there’s no way a court would take a look at these two and convict you.”

The discussion continued for some time and then Sherlock transformed into a dragon and gently carried a draped John to a cell where he curled up like a snake with his lover on the cold, hard floor. Lestrade stepped inside and placed Lian between John and one of Sherlock’s coils. John instinctively curled around his daughter and Sherlock crooned at the sight of them, nuzzling them softly.

_< My loves, my precious, precious loves,>_ Sherlock told them over and again as they slept deeply against his body.

“Do you want me to stay?” Lestrade asked softly, stroking Sherlock behind his ear.

< _Yes. >_

“Okay. I’ll tell My… unless you want him, too?”

< _He’ll never stay in a cell. Let him go do what he needs to do. He still has a great deal of influence._ >

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

Lestrade returned and stretched out on the nearby bed, his hand dangling over the side to rest on Sherlock’s flank. He slept deeply as well and Sherlock lay there for what felt like hours hating himself for failing so abysmally. Eventually fatigue caught up and he slept as well.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John hated seeing Sherlock in handcuffs, but there was little he could do. The courts were lost, unsure whether or not to prosecute a dragon or not. The Queen had quietly stepped back to watch the circus that was Sherlock’s trial, and the enigmatic consulting detective was facing a long line of angry Yarders who were happy to sit down and list all their woes about Sherlock Holmes. John sat with his daughter in the stands, but had to leave at one point when she started fussing. He passed her off to Mycroft when he was called to testify, but Mycroft brought her in to watch her Mummy on the stand in the hopes that people would see her and be moved by their plight.

John told his tale, explaining the agonizing feel of going through withdrawal for the second time in his life along with the fear that his daughter would be taken from him, killed, or die from neglect. While he wasn’t the sort to cry on the stand, he did let his emotions show through and explained how intense it was for him to be completely helpless in those moments.

“I’m a soldier. I’m a parent. I’m a doctor. I’m used to caring for and protecting others. I’m used to being able to take care of myself. I was completely helpless and when I got a chance to speak with Sherlock I demanded he save us. Neither of us had another choice.”

Sherlock was kept off the stand for obvious reasons, though there was some debate about that. Finally they were ready for closing arguments and Sherlock’s expensive lawyer smoothed out the facts for them all.

“Shan, or whoever she really is, was completely in control: she _teleported_ out of Baker Street with Moriarty. She had the ability to do that: to go in and get Moriarty- who _cannot_ teleport- out of prison herself. This wasn’t about breaking him out of jail. This was about _destroying_ Sherlock Holmes: a dragon that has been fighting for equal rights between humans and dragons, which lives in a common flat with no frills and luxuries. This trial is precisely what that spider had in mind. Instead of hunting him down, we’re putting the one man who has managed to challenge him on trial. We’re stepping on our own chance to free the world of the _real_ criminal by playing to his whim!”

Four hours later the jury was declared gridlocked and John was escorted back to the prison with Sherlock for his daily dose of dragon bond. While normally conjugal visits were prohibited, John was literally unable to survive without Sherlock so the law allowed it. They were led to what was normally a solitary confinement cell and Sherlock all but tackled him.

“It was torture hearing you describe being in pain without me,” Sherlock groaned, pinning John down to the small metal bed and sloppily kissing his neck, “John, John, John…”

“Sherlock! Mmmm, love, wait… There’s something… a letter… oh, gods!”

“I’ll read your poetry later,” Sherlock snarled, and tugged John’s jumper over his head.

“S’not my … oh _fuck_!” John gasped as Sherlock wasted no time in latching onto a nipple while palming John’s hardening cock.

“That _is_ the point of conjugal visits, my sexy soldier,” Sherlock chuckled.

“Mph, but I have a… letter… oh, fuck it I’ll give it to you later,” John groaned, and flipped Sherlock onto his back to snog him senseless.

“Mmm, my John,” Sherlock purred as John kissed his way down his torso, stripping the jumpsuit off of him as he went, “My John, my John. Some prison buffoon tried to lay his hands on me yesterday.”

“What?!” John snarled, his head jolting up, “Who?! I’ll kill them!”

“I turned into a dragon and scared the shit out of him,” Sherlock chuckled, “It was exhilarating. I was thinking of when you wanted me so badly. It made me wish you were there to rescue me and then take me _violently_ against a wall.”

“Sher,” John growled, stripping the dragonman of the last of his clothes and sucking his cock down greedily.

“Johhnn,” Sherlock groaned, “I want you in me, now!”

John grabbed the lotion they’d been provided and pressed his fingers inside Sherlock, preparing him quickly before thrusting eagerly home. Once inside he clasped Sherlock’s face and stared deeply into his eyes. Sherlock gasped, pupils dilating as they began to move together slowly, gripping John’s full buttocks tightly in his hands as he urged him to speed up.

“No. My turn topping, my speed,” John growled.

“I want you _fast and hard_ , John!” Sherlock snarled, fighting to control John’s mind in order to speed him up, “I want you how you’d take me if you’d just rescued me from an attempted _rape_ , not as if we just came home from the bloody cinema!”

John’s hips sped up a moment, but he fought Sherlock off with the expertise of a bonded, “This _is_ how I’d take you if you’d nearly been raped before my eyes; slowly and as if you were made of glass. Because you’re precious to me, Sherlock, more than your entire hoard. More than anything save our daughter. You’re _mine_ , Sherlock, and I won’t take you like you’re a cheep fuck. But I _will_ make you come _screaming_ my name.”

Sherlock was breathless, clutching John tightly as he rolled his hips to stimulate his lover’s prostate over and again. Sherlock wasn’t able to climax off of prostate stimulation alone, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t gasping in pleasure as John slowly dragged his cock in and out of his lover’s body, pinning him in place with his eyes. Sherlock was in awe of the intensity in John’s eyes as the soldier clenched his jaw and _owned_ him in every shape and way. Sherlock’s lips fell open and his breath came in shallow gasps as John hiked his legs higher and deepened his thrusts.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, “P-please.”

“Eyes on me, Sherlock,” John growled, “You’re my husband, yes? Keep me. Keep me right here with you. Like you’re enthralling me again.”

“I-“ Sherlock gasped, “You…”

“Sher,” John moaned, hips starting to speed up as he got closer and closer to his own climax.

“Enthrall… me,” Sherlock gasped, a tear running down his cheek.

“Sherlock!” John gasped, and sped up his hips until he Sherlock was being jolted with each hard thrust into his body.

“John!” Sherlock cried out, “Oh, gods, touch me, please!”

“With… pleasure,” John breathed, and shifted his weight off of his arms so he could bury his face in Sherlock’s neck and grasped his cock in hand to stroke it firmly, adding the twist on the end he knew his lover needed.

“J-John! Oh, fuck! John!” Sherlock cried out and came explosively between their bodies.

John groaned, his hips jerking convulsively as he emptied himself into his precious husband’s body.

“Mmm, you’re a sex god,” Sherlock breathed.

“Glad you finally realize that,” John chuckled, “But we’re almost out of time and I really _do_ need to show you that letter.”

Sherlock sighed, “What letter?”

“The encoded one that came in the mail from someone named Fred Porlock.”

“From… who?” Sherlock asked, shoving up on John’s shoulders.

“Fred Por…”

< _Not outloud! It’s an alias, but we can’t run risks. He works for Moriarty. He’s my mole. >_

_Why haven’t I heard about this before now?_

_< It wasn’t relevant before now. He’s always contacted me exclusively.>_

_Is he a thrall?_

_< No, I didn’t want to take the risk. He and I have an understanding. Nothing more. Do you have the letter on you?>_

_Yes._

_< Pretend you don’t. Take it out with you.>_

_Okay._

“I’ll bring it next time,” John stated out loud, “It’s probably just a crazed fan.”

“Probably. Is Lestrade or Moran next?”

“Neither, Mycroft.”

“ _Gods_.”

“Sherlock, he’s your brother. You’re supposed to be getting along with him now.”

“He doesn’t even need to see me. Our thrall can’t be broken.”

“He _wants_ to see you. He’s your brother and he loves you.”

“Don’t you _dare_ say that with your dick in my ass!”

John burst out laughing, but pulled away as requested. They shoved at each other playfully, dressing as slowly as possible and kissing the entire way.

_< When you are safely in our flat again you will read the letter to me mentally, do you understand? AWAY fro windows.>_

_Got it handsome._

_< Kiss Lian for me.>_

_She misses you. Crack the whip on Mycroft, okay?_

_< I will.>_

 

CHAPTER 54

Since the next chapter is taking so long I decided to put out a Mystrade chapter outside of the plot. Hope this gives you all something to chew on until I get my act together.

 

Lestrade took a deep breath and pressed the code into the door. A low buzz let him know it was unlocked and he stepped into the foyer of Mycroft’s home. Several months prior Mycroft had booted him out of the flat he’d gotten him when Sherlock had first enthralled him. Lestrade had found himself a bedsit fairly quickly once he’d realized staying with John and Sherlock meant seeing them experiment with various locations and positions. Now he was moving out of the bedsit and in with Mycroft after only one date. All his things were already here. Mycroft had moved Lestrade’s things into the attached room off the Master Suite –normally a nursery- to give him a room all his own in the gigantic house.

Lestrade opened two wrong doors before he found his room and stepped inside with a sigh of relief. His things had been mostly unpacked for him, but instead of a bed he had a gaping area where one would normally go. His book shelves and lamps were all here, as well as a couple of rickety end tables, but he’d gotten rid of his couch when he’d moved into the bedsit. Since he’d be sharing a bed with Mycroft there was no point in him having a bed in the room, so they’d agreed to go shopping together for a nice couch for him. Mycroft was insisting on spending a fortune on him and that made Lestrade nervous, but he knew he’d have to make compromises for the man.

Lestrade changed into his after work clothes, and then realized he’d be going to a high-end store with Mycroft and changed into a suit. He sighed miserably and walked downstairs just in time for Mycroft as he returned from the Diogenes Club.

“Perfect timing, did you want to eat before we go?”

“Maybe after?”

“Certainly,” Mycroft smiled and held out his arm.

Lestrade looped his arm through Mycroft’s with a grin, amused at the fact he was taking a more submissive role with Mycroft. He’d never been anything but the dominant partner with the women he’d been with. Frankly, he had more than enough authority at work. Coming home to pampering and a being led about without expectations piled on him aside from ‘look nice’ felt like a bit of a relief. He leaned into Mycroft’s power and enjoyed the warmth of his gaze.

They arrived at the store with high hopes, but Lestrade quickly discovered that enjoying Mycroft’s tastes in most things didn’t extend to ‘his’ couch. Lestrade wanted something soft and comfortable that he could toss himself down on at the end of the day. He wanted a safe haven away from Mycroft’s prim home, and that wasn’t going to happen with the £30,000 sofas that Mycroft was shoving him onto. He felt uncomfortable with them, possibly even more uncomfortable than when he sat on Mycroft’s furniture. Instead of becoming irritable with Lestrade for not liking any of the couches, Mycroft snapped at the sales associate and went through a book looking for something Lestrade would want.

“I need some air,” Lestrade whispered to him and all but fled the store.

Outside, Lestrade spent a moment wishing for a cigarette and then gave in and started looking for someone to bum one from. After a few minutes of looking around for a smoker around the posh shops he gave in and just started asking people. They all looked down their noses at him and one blatantly asked him what he was doing out of ‘his area’. Lestrade told him what to do with the stick in his arse and started walking down the street to find a store he could buy them at. Mycroft’s car slid up beside him but Lestrade ignored it until Mycroft rolled down the window.

“That was _not_ the only store in London, Gregory,” Mycroft informed.

“I need a cigarette.”

“I have your patches…”

“I need a _cigarette_.”

“I have your brand here as well.”

Lestrade almost dove into the car where Mycroft pressed the cigarette between his lips the way he might have done his finger. His lighter flicked open and Lestrade puffed the cigarette, took a deep drag, and blew it out with a sigh as he sank back into the leather seat. Lestrade took another long drag and then offered it to Mycroft who took a short pull and then blew a smoke ring at Lestrade’s heart. Lestrade smirked, gave Mycroft a wink, and took the cigarette back for another long drag. He blew the smoke out the corner of his mouth while undressing Mycroft with his eyes. Then Mycroft’s eyes darted to one side, looking out the back window, and he rapped on the driver’s window with his umbrella. The vehicle slowed and Mycroft lowered the dividing window.

“Turn around,” Mycroft ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

Lestrade finished his cigarette while the man circled the block and then pulled over where Mycroft had indicated. They were out of the fancy neighborhood, but not in an area that Lestrade was very familiar with which probably meant that it was a middle-income area with low crime. Mycroft waited until the chauffer opened the door and stepped out. Lestrade followed and gaped at a couch with a £300 sign sitting on it in someone’s front yard. It was brown leather, slightly worn but in good condition, puffy and soft with two soft dark brown pillows. One end was an attached rocker and it had a matching leather ottoman.

It was perfect.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade flopped down on his ‘new’ couch and grinned up at the new flat screen TV that took up most of the wall opposite. Mycroft stood in the doorway as though the room was off limits. Lestrade didn’t bother to correct him on that. He turned on his TV and hit the cable button, grinning and digging into his nearby mini-fridge to pull out a beer. He gave Mycroft a cheery grin and unbuttoned his pants with a relieved sigh. Mycroft snorted and shook his head in amusement.

“Shall I leave you two alone?”

Lestrade laughed and motioned Mycroft inside his sanctuary. Mycroft raised a finger to gain a moment and vanished back into the bedroom. When he returned he was in blue silk pajama pants and a blue silk kimono with [white peacocks](http://kyotoredbird.files.wordpress.com/2012/02/epic-peacock.jpg) decorating it. He had a scotch in hand and a book under one arm, clearly prepared to weather Lestrade’s football game.

“Peacocks?” Lestrade snorted.

“Yard sale?” Mycroft scoffed.

“Let’s fuck,” Lestrade countered.

“I don’t think you’ve gotten me drunk enough to fuck you on this monstrosity.”

“I haven’t tried yet,” Lestrade winked.

“Nothing you have in that fridge will warm me up to this… thing.”

“Well, I have a solution for you.”

“And that would be?”

“Lie on top of me instead of the couch,” Lestrade replied, turning to the side a bit and lifting one sock covered foot onto the couch to spread his legs invitingly.

“Hmmm, your concession is amenable,” Mycroft replied with a predatory smirk.

Mycroft placed his glass down on Lestrade’s rickety table and crawled the short distance to him while Lestrade slid further down to meet him. Mycroft knelt between Lestrade’s legs and stared into his eyes hungrily. Lestrade licked his lips and Mycroft darted in to devour them, their tongues stroking eagerly. Lestrade ran his hands over Mycroft’s shoulders and his hips immediately jumped up. The silk robe was easily the most sensual thing he’d ever felt on another person. The texture over that soft body was a drug and Lestrade was instantly addicted. He tugged Mycroft tighter against his body and began groping him and moaning in textured bliss.

“My goodness, Gregory!” Mycroft gasped, breaking the kiss in shock as Lestrade wrapped his arms legs around him and rubbed up and down them.

“I need my pants off. Now,” Lestrade panted.

Mycroft’s pupils dilated and he all but tore Lestrade’s pants off while Lestrade worked off the top. Once free of his confining clothes he pulled Mycroft back down on top of him and moaned and writhed against the silk.

“Are you going to have sex with me or the robe,” Mycroft teased while nipping at Lestrade’s neck.

“Please don’t make me choose,” Lestrade gasped, his voice cracking.

“Gods, you’re gorgeous like this,” Mycroft moaned, sliding down lower and licking one of Lestrade’s nipples.

“Fuck! Do that again!”

Mycroft gave the hardened nub a flick and Lestrade gasped and jumped. Mycroft chuckled and began to worship the man’s muscular chest, nuzzling the thick, curly grey hair and nipping his nipples until he was panting for it. The entire time Mycroft was devouring him, Lestrade was stroking hands and legs over his silk covered body.

“I’m going to have to leave these on, aren’t I?”

“Mmmm, fuck I want you to, but I haven’t even seen you naked yet,” Lestrade groaned, “We were so fast last time I didn’t even look at you.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft whispered, flicking his tongue across the shell of his lover’s ear, “Come to bed with me. I want to make love to you properly.”

“I… yeah,” Lestrade breathed, nodding and watched as Mycroft slowly got to his feet.

Even with his silk kimono and sleep pants tented, Mycroft still managed to look like a dapper gentleman as he held his hand out to help a dazed Lestrade to his feet.

“Shall we, my dear?”

Mycroft looped Lestrade’s hand into his arm and placed his hand over it. The warmth in the cool room was such a stark contrast that Lestrade gazed at his hand the entire way to the opulent bed. There he found himself pulled into warm arms and gently kissed as though cherished.

“Undress me, darling,” Mycroft whispered into Lestrade’s ear.

The detective shivered and then reached up and undid the sash, sliding the kimono down over Mycroft’s shoulders to pool on the ground. He slid the tie loose on his silk trousers and slid them down as well, having to lift them over Mycroft’s prominent erection. Once free, the man pulled Lestrade close once more and they slotted themselves together as though they belonged, kissing and gently exploring each other’s bodies. Mycroft was soft around the middle, but not flabby or disproportionate. His chest was virtually hairless, just a small red- blonde patch in the center of his chest. His legs and arms were lightly haired with the same soft colored hair. The patch around his pulsing cock was groomed and oddly elegant, though a darker shade of red like the hair on his head. Lestrade loved every inch of him and set about showing him so, but Mycroft disrupted his hungry assault on his skin by gently pressing him down onto the bed.

“Now, Gregory,” Mycroft purred, “Tell me what you want. What are your fantasies?”

“At the moment? You.”

Mycroft chuckled as he kissed a trail from Lestrade’s ear to his shoulder, “I think I can oblige.”

XXX

Mycroft spread Gregory’s thighs as though opening the doors to a chapel. His fingers ghosted over his limbs until the man panted and arched his hips in longing. He reached over their heads to tug open the drawer to his nightstand and pull out the warming lube. He poured some between his fingers and rubbed until it was warm and tingling. When he looked down at his silver haired fox it pulled a groan from his lips, the strong man had grasped his hands beneath his knees and was holding himself ready. The wanton look in his eyes was made more respectable by the smirk on his lips. Mycroft leaned over him and stroked his winking pucker with one finger.

“S’hot,” Lestrade groaned.

“It’s a warming lubricant, a luxury I’ve found myself unable to go without.”

“Mmmm, I’m sold.”

Mycroft prepared Gregory quickly, his own desire building unrelentingly. He’d never met someone he wanted more than this man, and even knowing that it was partially due to Sherlock’s unconscious matchmaking didn’t dull his desire. If Sherlock wanted to give him happiness in the form of a life partner who was perfectly compatible with him, then who was he to question his brilliant, if autistic, brother?

With two fingers pumping in and out of Gregory’s body, he found himself utterly entranced by the man’s eager reception of his invading digits.

“You were _born_ for this,” Mycroft breathed.

“Fucking love being filled,” Gregory grunted, “I bought some toys…”

Mycroft gaped at Gregory and he blushed and grinned defiantly, refusing to be shamed.

“Toys?” Myroft prompted.

“Beads, dicks, plugs. Feeling a cock in me for the first time set me off. I want to be filled up, My,” Gregory reached down and stroked a firm hand around Mycroft’s twitching prick, “And you’re _hung_.”

Mycroft’s control snapped and he slapped Gregory’s hand away to pounce on him, curling his fingers inside of Gregory to press against his g-spot until the man was gasping and writhing in pleasure while Mycroft licked and nipped his neck. He scissored his fingers and then slipped them free and leaned back.

“I can’t decide how I want you,” Mycroft breathed.

“I can. I wanna ride that bad boy,” Gregory growled, reaching down to cup Mycroft’s bollocks with one hand while he gripped his cock almost painfully.

Mycroft snarled as he dragged the impudent man’s hands away and pinned them above his head, “You audacious…!”

“You love it!” Gregory shouted back and struggled with a cheeky grin on his face.

The two men fought for dominance and Mycroft quickly found himself pinned beneath the stronger man’s fit body. He moaned eagerly, loving the struggle as he’d known he would, but quickly found that being on the bottom didn’t stop him from topping the normally cool detective who wriggled in his lap and whined for Mycroft’s attention. Mycroft gripped his hips and guided him up, watching with baited breath as Gregory gripped his slicked cock and positioned it at his entrance.

They both let out a shuddering sigh as Gregory sank down on him. Mycroft was overwhelmed by the hot clench around his cock despite his expectation of it. Once Gregory was fully seated he held still a moment, head thrown back in bliss at the full feeling he’d been craving. Mycroft stroked hands up the man’s thighs and hips, stroking his thumbs in a circle over each hipbone. Gregory sighed and then brought his chin down to meet Mycroft’s eyes. The mood shifted once more, this time to a tender atmosphere that allowed Mycroft to reach up and stroke the striking man’s cheek.

“You’re gorgeous,” Gregory breathed, “This is _right_. It’s so right.”

“Yes,” Mycroft breathed, at a loss for words for a change.

Gregory let his eyes slide shut and Mycroft guided him up and then gently eased him down again. They sighed together and then began to move more freely. Mycroft shifted up, bucking his hips into the man gyrating above his body. All those muscles under darkly tanned skin with a thick dusting of silver hair took his breath away. As the pleasure began to build he found himself bracing his feet and pressing into him faster and harder. Gregory was gazing down at him, lips parted, eyes wide in shock, but Mycroft had no idea why. He had his hands braced on Mycroft’s thighs as he leaned back and grunted in pleasure.

“I, ahhhh, Mycroft!” Gregory gasped, and started to move faster.

“Gregory,” Mycroft grunted, trying to hold back as he rushed towards his impending orgasm. He quickly grasped Gregory’s bouncing member and stroked it fast and hard in rhythm with Gregory’s movements.

“Oh, gods!” Gregory cried out, and erupted over Mycroft’s body, his movements faltering even though he stubbornly kept himself moving over Mycroft’s cock through his climax.

“Fuck!” Mycroft cried out, overwhelmed by the feel of Gregory’s body massaging his cock.

Mycroft closed his eyes and arched into Gregory’s body, gasping as he emptied himself into that willing vessel. When he relaxed into the soft bed he was surprised to find Gregory was still sitting up on him instead of collapsed in pleasure.

“Gregory?” Mycroft asked, opening his eyes in concern. What could possibly go wrong now.

“Gods, your face,” Gregory panted, his hand trembling as he wiped off his forehead with the back of one hand, “Your _face.”_

“Am I having some allergic reaction I’m not aware of?” Mycroft asked with a raised eyebrow.

Gregory let out a bark of laughter and slipped off of Mycroft to collapse beside him. Not liking the sudden chill, Mycroft cleaned his chest off with a tissue and then crowded closer to him. He’d never initiated ‘cuddling’ before, having kept his previous sexual encounters as businesslike as possible. He turned on his side and placed his hand on Gregory’s opposite hip. As a passing thought he slipped his leg over Gregory’s, but it didn’t seem right so he rolled onto his back and abandoned his awkward attempt and snuggling. Gregory, in that way he had, simply rolled onto his side into the position Mycroft had been attempting, tucked his head onto Mycroft’s shoulder, and relaxed with a sigh.

“It feels _right_ ,” Gregory repeated again.

“Mm, yes, but you were giving me the most… _interesting_ look. Shocked, I might say.”

“I was a bit, yeah,” Gregory breathed, trying to regulate his breathing.

“May I ask why? You mentioned my _face_.”

“Yeah,” Gregory chuckled, “Wish I’d caught that on tape, actually. You should have seen yourself.”

“Really?” Mycroft asked, letting a bit of acid drip into his tone.

Gregory snorted, “Relax, My. I’m not insulting you. You looked… gods, _wild._ Your nostrils flared, your eyes narrowed, your teeth clenched, you were fucking me like you were conquering me. Bloody hell, My. I said I wanted to see you come apart, but…”

Mycroft smiled as the man pressed tightly against him and sighed happily. Eventually they slipped away to shower together before tucking themselves into bed with a charmingly familiar domesticity. Mycroft read for a bit while Gregory looked a few things up on the internet. Eventually Gregory started dozing so Mycroft confiscated the laptop and argued the man into lying down. He was soon snoring peacefully and Mycroft watched him sleep for a while before curling up beside him and turning out the light.

Gregory was correct: this was _right._

[CHAPTER 55- EPILOGUE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/109960.html)


	12. vincentmeoblinn | DRAGON BLOOD 55-Epilogue

CHAPTER 55

John slipped his daughter into bed, pressing gentle kisses to her downy hair before gently releasing her and walking with silent feet to her door. She slept through the night now, a fact that John both cherished and mourned as it meant if he woke up at night missing her he must leave her to sleep in peace rather than simply waiting for her next feeding to be able to hold her and breathe in her scent.

He walks down the hall and out of the guest rooms area. Instead he heads for the largest bedroom in the ‘palace’, as he’s taken to calling Mycroft’s huge townhouse home. He knocks shyly at the door, knowing he’s welcome but still not quite feeling it. Lestrade opens the door and tugs him in and John finds himself pressed warmly against Mycroft’s soft sides. Mycroft smells a bit like Sherlock and John buries his face in the man’s chest to breathe that in while trying not to cry from it. Mycroft holds him gently, murmuring soothing words and rubbing a circle into his back. Lestrade settles down behind Mycroft and spoons him lovingly, reaching out to pet John’s hair on occasion. Soon they all sleep, comforted by their joined presence bringing them closer to the dragon they miss so desperately.

John feels guilty for taking up Mycroft and Lestrade’s bed when their relationship is so new, but Mycroft assures him that it makes little difference to them.

“Gregory and I are committed to each other, such is the life of thralls and we are as good as wed. We will have a lifetime to be alone in our bed. You need us now.”

That doesn’t comfort him when he wakes one night to find them silently making love beside him. Their movements are so slow that John almost can’t feel the bed moving. Their breathing is silenced against each other’s lips. It was Sherlock who woke him, but not the presence of the dragon he longed for. It was Sherlock inside his mind.

_< Look at them, John. They’re beautiful. I want you like that. I want to feel you against me knowing that you’ll never be apart from me again.>_

_I’m always with you, Sher,_ John replied, obediently watching as Mycroft threw his head back and gasped out his climax. Lestrade wasn’t far behind, biting Mycroft’s shoulder to stop himself from crying out as he spilled inside Mycroft’s body.

_< But I can’t smell you right now. I can’t touch you. I can’t reach out and…>_

Sherlock shut down the connection… well, he muted it. He couldn’t shut it out completely with their bond so very close. If John focused on that alien part of his brain that housed Sherlock’s consciousness he could feel the man thrashing angrily in his bed in a cold cell far away in Pentonville prison. He could feel him take his cock in hand and then release it in frustration, unwilling to climax without the warmth of John’s body nearby. He could hear him scream out his helplessness and then yell back at the inmates who shouted at him to keep quiet.

_< I could teleport there. They stopped keeping the runed cuffs on me when they realized I was staying willingly. I could be there, have you twice, and then be back by morning.>_

_Too risky. It’s not just your freedom at stake, Sherlock. Dragons and humans everywhere are counting on us to prove that Dragons aren’t above the rest of the world. If we don’t then another Moriarty will rise up once you’ve taken him down. I’ll see you tomorrow… for an hour._

Sherlock railed and ranted, screamed and roared in outrage. He transformed into a dragon and destroyed his cell… but he never touched the bars. They were a symbol. A symbol of what stood between them- frail pieces of metal that he could have torn from the wall as easily as he could teleport straight to John’s side- but they stood for more than what separated the two lovers. They stood for justice. Justice in a world that let dragons kill innocent people but demanded those that struck back be tortured before dying, because there was no higher crime than killing a dragon, but a human life? Meaningless. John and Sherlock didn’t want their daughter to grow up in such a world, even if she was to benefit from it.

Still the one hour visit a day wasn’t enough for them and what possibly made it worse was that Moran got two hours. The bastard locked in a sitting room with attached bathroom downstairs got more time with Sherlock each day than John did, because he was a new thrall and because Sherlock was trying to break him in order to get to Moriarty.

Mycroft and Lestrade were kissing softly, and then drawing apart. Mycroft stood and left the room to wash up, but not before whispering to Lestrade that John was only _pretending_ to be asleep.

“Yeah, I know. I heard Sherlock freaking out,” Lestrade sighed.

Lestrade turned to John once Mycroft was gone, rubbing his back gently while John lay still and aroused, his hard cock pressed into the mattress beneath him.

“I talked to My. He says it’s fine if we…”

“No,” John said sharply, and then sighed and rolled over, “No, thank you, Greg. I appreciate it, I do, but I’m not hard up for sex. I’m hard up for _Sherlock_. I don’t want anyone but him.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Lestrade replied, and pressed a soft kiss to John’s lips in the moonlit room. It should have been romantic. It should have been endearing. Instead it just made John’s throat close up with all that he couldn’t have.

John rolled back over and gave in to the emotions twisting up his gut. It was too much. He’d spent every second with Sherlock since he’d been enthralled with him, sometimes not even parting when one of them had to use the loo. Now he was yanked away from him and it was _torture_. With his face buried in his pillow he sobbed brokenly until he fell back to sleep with a freshly washed Mycroft once again gently rubbing his back.

VVVVVVVVV

_Jack McMurdo was a cheerful Irishman with a quick temper, but none of those reasons seemed to be why no one on the train would make eye contact with him. Finally a man sat beside him with a grin and shook his hand._

_“Mike Scanlan. Put it there.”_

_“Dark nights are unpleasant.”_

_“Yes, for strangers to travel.”_

_“Jack McMurdo. Order 29, Chicago in the States.”_

_“Brother Scanlan, New Wales Order 341.”_

_“I’m glad to meet a Brother so early on. I’m headed to Opal Valley. Bought myself a small plot and I’m hoping to strike it rich.”_

_“You’ll find plenty in that area. The Order flourishes here-abouts. Most everyone is part of it. Is that what brings you here? Work?”_

_“I had plenty in Chicago.”_

_“Then why did you leave?” The fellow asked suspiciously._

_McMurdo nodded towards some policemen sleeping on a bench nearby, “I guess those chaps would like to know that, too.”_

_“In trouble?” Scanlan asked in a whisper._

_“Deep.”_

_“Penitentiary job?”_

_“And the rest.”_

_“Not a killing?”_

_“It’s early days to talk of such things,” McMurdo replied, looking surprised at himself for saying as much as he had._

_“All right, mate, no offense meant. The boys will think none of the worse for you. You’ll find Opal Valley is a different sort of Order than the one you’re used to in Chicago. You’ll be welcomed for your past, most likely. Keep loyal to the Boss and you’ll find Australia’s a good place to live. When you get to the station look up Bodymaster McGinty. He’s the bodymaster of Opal Valley, runs a bar called Opal Order. You can get lodgings with Jacob Shafter, but don’t mention you’re in the Order.”_

_“What? Why not? Being a Freemen is an honor!”_

_“In some places,” Scanlan replied mysteriously, then stood and got off at the station._

_Jack settled back, quietly musing over all that had been said. His stop wasn’t for another hour at least. Eventually one of the officers wandered over to intimidate him but he told the man where he could stick his billy club. The man left in a huff and the other passengers, formerly cold and avoiding him, crowded close to make his acquaintance._

VVVVVVVVVV

It was ironic, really. In the end it was Moriarty himself who got Sherlock out of prison. The day that Pentonville and the Bank of England just up and unlocked themselves Sherlock was found sitting calmly in his unlocked cell reading a book. When asked why he hadn’t either escaped or stopped the escape he’d merely smirked and replied:

“That would be playing into his hands. He wants me to make a big deal of myself. Obviously I’m not going to escape because I put myself here. I’m also not going to assist in preventing prisoners from escaping because that would make it look as though I had engineered the escape to make myself look good. You’ll find this was a cover for something far larger, though.”

His words turned out to be correct, but not in the way he’d expected. Moriarty had made off with the crown jewels, leaving only a picture of himself smirking while sitting on the throne in full garb. Sherlock professed to be surprised about the nature of the crime.

“I was expecting something to occur in Groombridge Place, according to a coded message one of my thralls received. Of course, I haven’t been able to see the message and translate it, so perhaps it was a double blind and I’ve missed the meaning entirely.”

That made people curious, so they checked in at Groombridge Place and less than an hour later Sherlock was being handed his clothing and shoes and escorted to the entrance of Pentonville prison where the recently cowed prisoners shouted abuse at him as he slipped into a black sedan.

“Mycroft.”

“Sherlock.”

“Mind catching me up? You’ve been the one blocking me this time.”

“John would prefer to do so. He’s been… Sherlock he’s been a wreck.”

Sherlock frowned, “I know. He’s tried to block me out and he acts naturally when he visits, but I feel it nonetheless. He can’t block me as you can. Never has been able to.”

VVVVVVVVVVVV

_Jack gaped at the beautiful woman standing in the doorway of Shafter’s boarding house. She blushed as she looked him over, clearly impressed by what she saw but too much of a lady to make any obvious statement to the fact. Jack fell and fell hard, automatically reaching into her to keep her for himself. He saw her eyes glaze a moment and then re-focus. They would never be apart again._

_However, over the course of the next week Ettie Shafter, Jacob Shafter’s daughter, made it clear that she could have no union with Jack. It turned out that she already had a courter and the bastard terrified her. She feared for her life, but when she pleaded with Jake to take her and her father far away from Opal Valley Jake gave her a pained look and told her he couldn’t._

_“I have much to do here, Ettie, but I’ll keep you safe. You mark my words, no one will separate us or harm you or your father. Ever.”_

VVVVVVVVVV

The unfortunate condition of Sherlock’s release meant that he and John had virtually no privacy to great each other. They met at Mycroft’s home where John pressed Lian into his arms. Lian burst into tears, grabbing a fist-full of curls and trying to tug them to her face. Sherlock lifted her to his shoulder and let her nuzzle against him, pressing kisses to his daughter’s tiny head. He tucked her into the crook of his arm and pressed a tender kiss to John’s lips. John slid his arms around Sherlock’s free arm, breathing in his scent and sticking close to him as Sherlock walked up to the table to look over the letter that had come for him a week earlier.

**534 C2 13 127 36 31 4 17 21 41 DOUGLAS 109 293 5 37 GROOMBRIDGE 26 GROOMBRIDGE 9 47 171**

**FRED PORLOCK**

“John Douglas was found murdered in his study,” John explained, “He’s a dragon, which is why everyone is shitting themselves. I haven’t any other details at the moment. They’ll take us there once you’re done with the letter.”

“Where is the second letter?” Sherlock asked.

“There wasn’t a second letter,” John replied.

Sherlock frowned, “There _must_ be a second letter. This is a cipher, clearly from a book, without knowing what the book is I have no way of translating it.”

“Ah, nope, no second letter.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock groused, “You’ve missed it somehow. Hopefully it isn’t thrown out with the rubbish.”

John didn’t argue. For all he knew the cipher clue was an advert or a coupon that had come in the mail. Whatever it was, Sherlock would find it.

“I haven’t tossed the mail in ages. Let’s take a look.”

Sherlock reluctantly left Lian in Mycroft’s arms and drove with John to Baker Street where he tore the mail to shreds before throwing up his arms in disgust.

“No translation?”

“None,” Sherlock sulked, tossing himself down into a chair and staring up at his bookshelves, “He must not have been able to send it, or it went astray.”

John sank down into Sherlock’s lap, ignoring the police escort’s frowns, and pressing close to Sherlock.

“You think the book might be here?”

“It stands to reason,” Sherlock murmured into John’s hair, “Porlock would pick a book I was likely to have, otherwise time would be wasted searching for it.”

“You have a _lot_ of books.”

“Yes, but what’s common? What does every household have? From what we see here it is a large book, the first number being the page number. It has at least two columns based on the C2…”

“Bible? Many Bibles have two columns.”

“Mmm, too many translations, and I doubt any of Moriarty’s cohorts has a Bible, even if they are a turncoat.”

“Dictionary?”

Sherlock snorted, “One page of the dictionary? How many letters have you seen written with only the same letter in the entire thing?”

“I guess a thesaurus is out, then,” John sighed, stroking Sherlock’s chest.

“Mmm, don’t. I’ll have you over the nearest surface if you start fondling me.”

“How is that different than normal?” John growled.

“I don’t want to piss off the police what with my parole being conditional on me finding this killer.”

John groaned in frustration, but being near Sherlock was more important than sex so he relaxed into him.

“Mmm… what about a Bradshaw?”

“A good suggestion, but Bradshaw seems to limited to me.”

“An almanac?”

Sherlock tensed and then transformed, leaving John sprawled on the chair with Sherlock’s clothes beneath him, as his tiny form flew to the shelf and dragged the book free. Sherlock transformed into his human form again- nude- and flipped through the book to page 534.

“A pen, John!”

John snatched up a pen and paper and wrote down what Sherlock read.

"Here is page 534, column two, a substantial block of print dealing, I perceive, with the trade and resources of India. Number thirteen is 'Mahratta.' Not, I fear, a very auspicious beginning. Number one hundred and twenty-seven is 'Government'; which at least makes sense. Now let us try again. What does the Mahratta government do? Damn! The next word is 'pig's-bristles.'”

Sherlock through the book down in frustration then snatched it back up again.

“Where’s the old one?”

“What?”

“This came a few days ago, the letter came days before that. We need the _old_ one. Last years almanac.”

John searched frantically and pulled it out from where it was holding up the broken leg on a chair. Sherlock flipped through the pages and beamed.

“Number thirteen is 'There,' which is much more promising. Number one hundred and twenty-seven is 'is'—'There is' 'danger.' Ha! Ha! Brilliant! Put that down, John. 'There is danger—may—come—very soon—one.' Then we have the name 'Douglas'—'rich—country—now—at Groombridge—Place—Groombridge—confidence—is—pressing.'”

John sighed, “Not it, then.”

“What do you mean, not it? How is that not it?”

“Well it sounds weird, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose, but you have to recall he was trying to work off of one page and the single column of one book. It isn’t going to be worthy of publication.”

“I suppose, but now we’ve got an out-of-date warning. Now what?”

“We go to Groomsbridge, of course.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

[A Pic of Groomsbridge Place](http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/01403/GroombridgePlace_1403462c.jpg)

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Detective Alec MacDonald was in charge of keeping Sherlock from escaping while he handled his case. He was a cheerful Scotsman, tall and thin, with a ready grin and a sharp eye. John and Sherlock took a liking to him immediately. He and John compared lineage during the train ride to Kent and were much disappointed to find themselves unrelated. John kept tucked close to Sherlock or wore him wrapped around his body in his smaller dragon form- usually about the size of his tattoo and draped over it.

“Perhaps now would be a good time to catch us up on the crime,” Sherlock suggested finally, annoyed by the attention being diverted away from him.

MacDonald sighed and frowned, “It’s a puzzler, all right. Groomsbridge Place is surrounded by a moat, though it’s only three feet deep, and it has it’s own drawbridge which is pulled up each night at sunset. Victim was John Douglas; Douglas has been alive for a bit over a century. We don’t know much about his life except that he spent part of it in America and another chunk in Australia, though he is English. He made a fortune in mining Opals at one point, supposedly his entire hoard is opals.”

“Does he have children?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Some half dozen, I believe,” MacDonald nodded.

“With a man or woman?”

“Woman… can dragons have children with the same gender?”

“The males can, females likely aren’t far behind in that breeding possibility. If his spouse is a female then it is possible his hoard is composed entirely of opals. Do go on.”

“Was… was that relevant in some way?” MacDonald asked, giving John a worried look.

“ _Everything_ is relevant,” John answered since the man was looking at him, “Had his spouse been male then it would have been impossible for his hoard to have been all opals. He’d need gold to heat up in order to keep the egg at the right temperature since males lay eggs instead of giving live birth. If he had gold, he might have stolen it and we’d have motive and suspect in one go. Since we know he mined opals and it’s a distinct possibility his hoard is _all_ opals… well, you get the point.”

MacDonald nodded, “I can see why you two were brought in. Most of us wouldn’t have thought of that. I understand this is supposed to be related to the crown jewels being stolen. You think he took them?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, “We know who took those, it’s just a matter of catching him… well, actually, I suspect the Queen sent me on this merry chase so she could take care of _that_ matter herself.”

“She’s going after Moriarty?” John asked in surprise.

“He robbed her hoard, and not just any part of it, her most prized possessions. It’s tantamount to declaring himself king. If she doesn’t counter him he will assume the throne next. The rules are old, but they’re still in affect. She must hunt him down and kill him, yet he put several distractions in place. Therefore I become a chess piece who she must maneuver into position to cover her movements. The question is, am I a pawn or a less expendable piece? Tell me more about Douglas.”

“Well, we found him in his home with his head blown off. Sawed off shotgun, so we’re thinking this has to do with his past in America. He’d been there two days.”

“Since the break-ins.”

“Correct.”

“His thralls?” John asked in concern.

“Last I heard being detained as witnesses, but not as suspects,” MacDonald replied, “Apparently they’re in shock.”

“Uhhh,” John gave him a confused look, “They haven’t killed themselves? Are his kids there or something?”

MacDonald looked confused. Sherlock smirked, “You could have at least _googled_ dragons if you were going to take up a case. Even John had that much sense.”

“Oi!” John snipped irritably.

“Why don’t we wait to see for ourselves?” Sherlock suggested, then stretched out with his head on John’s lap and promptly went to sleep.

VVVVVVVVV

_“I’ve been courting Ettie for months now! She’s my woman!” Ted Baldwin snarled angrily._

_“That’s enough out of you, Ted,” Bodymaster McGinty snarled, “We don’t let womenfolk come between Brothers. Since you’re both of the Order the lass can choose for herself. Now you two let this drop or I’ll be putting Order justice on you both. Ted, you know what that means more than this new fellow does, so we’ll have a drink and drop this foul subject.”_

_Jack found himself with a drink in one hand and Ted Baldwin’s hand in the other._

_“I forgive as quickly as I anger, it’s my Irish temper,” Jack smiled warmly, “Let’s put it behind us like the Boss says.”_

_“Sure, mate, sure,” Baldwin replied with a snarl as he shook Jack’s hand._

_“Now then,” McGinty grinned, “Before you interrupted us, Ted, Jack was telling me about his adventures in Chicago. Most of that is of the private sort, but some of it will concern the Order. Jack’s got some skill in making common stones look like opals and it’s near undetectable!”_

_“That’s impossible,” Ted scoffed._

_“I came here for a reason,” Jack replied with a scoff, “I started on forging coins, but the law was about to catch up with me in Chicago… among other problems. Then I started working on fake gems figuring they’d be easier to pass of quietly. I stumbled across a way of making glass stones look like opals and headed straight for here. I heard the Valley around here has it’s own law that the police fear to go near, so I figure it’s a safer place for a forger like myself.”_

_“You’ll be referring to the Scowrers. They’re our discipline squad. We police ourselves around here, that’s for sure, and there are high penalties for disobeying. The whole town knows it and you won’t find a more peaceful place to live what with discipline being so firm. There’s no crime here save the ones I condone,” McGinty explained._

_“Sounds like my kind of town,” Jack grinned._

VVVVVVVVVVV

The stench was abysmal, and so was the sight of the man with his head blown off on the floor. What was even more shocking, however, were the four thralls curled up around each other in the corner. They reeked of human waste and were clearly dehydrated.

“Haven’t their kids been called?!” John asked in horror, rushing over to tend to them while Sherlock examined the dragon’s remains.

“We were waiting until his body was released to the morgue.”

“His thralls are _suffering!_ ” John snapped angrily, “It’s a miracle they haven’t killed themselves! They need to bond with their children before the withdrawal ends or they _will_!”

“They’ve all been his thralls for quite a while,” Sherlock spoke softly as he touched John’s shoulder soothingly, “Their withdrawal could last weeks. It’s important for us to…”

“I’ve BEEN through withdrawal!” John shouted, “TWICE!”

Sherlock stilled a moment, likely sensing John’s pain, and then turned to Detective Inspector White Mason, the local copper: “Call their children. Get them re-enthralled. In the mean time, John, take care of their immediate needs.”

John got a PC to fetch him supplies and started gently working water down the throats of the traumatized ex-thralls. John started gently questioning them; knowing Sherlock would listen as he kept their link wide open and pushed responses their way.

“What’s your name?”

“Ames,” The older gentleman replied, “I’m the butler.”

John moved on to the older woman, “Mrs. Allen,” she replied softly.

“Cecil,” replied the middle-aged man, “Cecil Barker. I’m his second bonded… was his… oh gods!”

Cecil started shaking and covered his face with his hands rubbing and pulling at his hair. John comforted him gently and then eased the man into the arms of the woman he’d been leaning against most.

“Ivy,” She whispered, “Ivy Douglas. His wife and first bonded. This just can’t be happening.”

“How can we get in touch with your children, Mrs. Douglas?” John asked gently, easing a bit more water down her parched esoghogas. She coughed, but was soon able to answer.

“My Jane is married,” She smiled gently, “She’s a dragon with a baby on the way with her first bonded. What if she loses the baby because of this? You can’t tell her, please!”

“We’ll make sure she’s told gently. Will that be your first grandbaby?”

“Yes and no. I’m John’s second wife. I have three step-children in their seventies. They have children and grandchildren of their own. Most are dragons as well. We’re an old family, very closely linked to the throne.”

“May I ask your age?” John asked, recalling then that she wasn’t as middle-aged as she looked.

“Just fifty,” She smiled gently, “He bonded with me when I was twenty-two, a few years after his first wife died. Cecil he’s been with longer, but as a friend- John didn’t enthrall him until he moved back to England. We’d already been in this house ten years by then.”

“Is Jane your only child?”

“My oldest. The other is in college… they can’t tell him by phone. He’ll be devastated. His father was his entire world, besides he hasn’t emerged yet. He might not even _be_ a dragon.”

“I hear you, ma’am, but this is going to hit the news eventually. You don’t want him to find out that way.”

Mrs. Douglas looked devastated and burst into tears immediately. Cecil held her tightly and John looked over his shoulder to check on Sherlock’s progress.

“They won’t be told by phone. A detective is going to go to their homes and tell them,” John soothed, “I’m going to go talk to Sherlock… you know, from the papers?”

“Sh-sherlock Holmes?” Mrs. Douglas looked over to Sherlock, but there was fear in her eyes.

Sherlock caught the look, “Don’t worry, Ma’am, I won’t be taking any of you as a thrall.”

“What have you got there, Sherlock?” John asked, knowing there was little he could do for them.

“A few oddities: a missing dumbbell, a missing wedding ring, and a business card reading NW - 341. Oh, and the shotgun was made in Australia, though it does look like an American weapon the end being shorn off is both to imitate American gangs and to hide it’s original make. It’s also quite old. This _is_ a dragon’s corpse, I can tell by smell, which is at least a partial identification.”

“It’s him,” Barker stated softly, “I saw the whole thing.”

John looked up and saw the horror on the man’s face before he pressed it back into Ivy Douglas’ bosom.

“Then you can identify his killer,” Sherlock stated.

The man pointed to the window where Sherlock walked over and pulled the curtain aside. He didn’t look down, having already inspected that area, he just pointed for John to do the same.

“A bloody footprint and… water? Is that the moat?”

“It used to reach the windows when we had heavy rainfall,” Cecil sobbed, “Perhaps if we still kept it that high…”

“Wasn’t the bridge up?” John asked, “It’s raised at nightfall, isn’t it? The report said he died at eleven at night. It should be easy to find reports of a mud-covered man leaving the area.”

“The person was already here,” Sherlock stated, drawing John’s attention down to a set of muddy footprints, “Waiting behind the curtains. The drawbridge was left up later than usual because the family had company. They left around ten, according to DI Mason’s investigation so far. An hour later Barker walked in on another man struggling with Douglas. Before he could intervene the gun went off and Douglas was killed. Barker went into shock, but the gunshot sound brought Mrs. Douglas. While she was losing her mind-“

“Sherlock!” John scolded

“-Barker got himself together and rang the bell for the servants. They came running and the group commenced mourning together in that sewage pit which was formerly called a corner.”

“ _Sherlock!_ ”

“John, look at his arm. That mark there, tell me what you think about it.”

John sighed at Sherlock’s behavior and walked over to the remains of the man on the floor. It was warm and they were badly decomposed, but his swollen arm didn’t much distort the mark on his arm. That was because it wasn’t a tattoo.

“This is a _brand_ , Sherlock,” John stated.

“About how old, would you say?” Sherlock asked, completely unsurprised.

“Hmm, judging by healing here… well, I’ve never seen a healing pattern quite like this. It’s very faded. I’d say it’s almost completely healed despite the fact that it was very deep originally. In fact… I think… yes, this has been gone over multiple times. I’m guessing to keep it visible despite the dragon healing abilities. What would it take to scar you, Sherlock?”

“A brand applied multiple times, as you’ve already deduced in a short period of time. Excellent work, John.”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John smiled happily.

“It’s good to see that as a doctor you aren’t nearly as blind as you are as a detectives assistant.”

“Thank you. Sherlock,” John replied sarcastically, “So what does the mark _mean_.”

Sherlock knelt by the man’s side with a sigh, “I don’t know.”

“Sorry, say that again?” John asked in shock.

“We should check town for the man Cecil described and see if a man of his description has been seen anywhere,” Sherlock stated, rising to his feet authoritatively.

“Already done,” MacDonald replied, “We found the Inn he was staying at and have his suitcase.

“Very well, I’ll look that over next.”

“Sherlock,” John called, jumping to his feet as Sherlock swept towards the exit, “Sherlock, I can’t leave.”

Sherlock looked back in confusion, “Why?”

“Because they still haven’t got a dragon,” John replied, gesturing to them.

“Well what do you want me to do about it?” Sherlock snipped, scowling in annoyance, “Even if I _could_ take on four thralls, what would I do with them? Wouldn’t you get jealous?”

“I just want to wait until the daughter gets here,” John replied with a huff of annoyance, “Or are you forgetting that I’ve _been_ where they are… well, close to it anyway.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to say something truly awful, John could just feel the vitriol building up, but he cut him off once more: “Sherlock, that could be me someday.”

Sherlock’s open mouth turned into a slack jaw and he gave John a horrified look, glanced down at the people huddled in the corner, and then turned sharply and headed out of the room.

“I’ll be looking around the grounds!” He called over his shoulder.

“The grounds sound good,” John said, but not to Sherlock’s retreating form. He was talking to the thralls who were staring guiltily up at him, probably for causing a fight between he and Sherlock, “It’s fine. He’s always like that. Why don’t we get you four cleaned up and out for a stroll in the fresh air? You don’t want to meet your new dragon- well, you already know her, but you know what I mean- not in that state.”

John coaxed them to their feet and out the door, the hope of another dragon soothing their mind enough to get them moving, “I’m a doctor, so you don’t have to be shy about me. Where’s the biggest bathroom in your home? I’ll get each of you washed up. PC, will you come with me and stay with the ones I’m not washing? Thanks.”

John took them to a large bathroom, guided by Mrs. Allen, where he took the lady of the house first to wash her up. She was very beautiful, and John felt an honest stirring for her. Here was a fellow thrall who had loved and lost. Her children were likely her only salvation… unless Sherlock got rid of Moran and… no. John tamped down on his enthusiasm. It was one thing to have a passing fancy, but he had to remember that his relationship with Sherlock was going to last for decades- perhaps even centuries. He couldn’t just ask Sherlock to take someone on because he could relate to them and missed the press of a soft woman’s body. He didn’t _need_ a woman in his life. He had Sherlock and he was all he needed, most couples occasionally wanted a bit _more_ but that didn’t excuse going to look for it.

John finished helping the dazed woman bathe, rinsed her off, and led her out into the main hallway again in fresh clothing provided by Mrs. Allen and the PC. He took Barker next and washed him quickly and efficiently; once done he returned for Mrs. Allen. It was while he was bathing Ames that he heard something from the next room. Curious, he left the half-dried Ames to quietly pull open the door and glance out at the thralls in the hallway. The PC was nowhere in sight, Mrs. Allen was looking out a window a bit away from Barker and Mrs. Douglas, and the lady and gentleman in question were… laughing?!

John shoved Ames’ clothes into his hands, scowling at the horrified look on his face, and stormed out into the hall. Mrs. Douglas and Barker stood up quickly and gave him an alarmed look. John ignored the chill of his wet shirt and turned down the hall to leave them, but Mrs. Douglas caught at his arm.

“Please… you must think us cold, but I assure you it isn’t what you think.”

“Oh? You weren’t just laughing? Only an hour after leaving the body of your _dragon_? Is he even dead? Is that someone else in there?”

“I wish it was,” Mrs. Douglas breathed, tears gathering in her eyes, “I assure you, Cecil and I were discussing my… late… husband. We were merely recalling the good times together. You understand, don’t you?”

John didn’t and it likely showed on his face, because the woman drew back with fear in her eyes.

“Please,” Barker tried, “Don’t tell anyone what you saw here. They won’t understand, anyway. They won’t be able to figure out why it’s so significant. Only another thrall would understand. If you’ll just wait… wait until this blows over. I promise you, we’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing illegal.”

John sighed in frustration; it was true that no one would understand. He doubted even a dragon would understand a thralls attachment to their dragon. It was a mindless devotion that escalated to worship as the relationship continued; on the fanatical sort of worship that led people to kill themselves and sacrifice their children on altars to dragons- living and memorial- in times of old. John wasn’t prepared to kill Lian for Sherlock, but he sure as hell would kill anyone including himself for the dragon.

Which only proved one thing: their dragon- whoever he or she was- was not dead.

VVVVVVVVVVV

_Jack was blindfolded and trussed up. They’d removed his coat and stretched out his arm, binding it that way with rope. The Order’s ceremonial cap was placed over his head, but it made little difference to him with the hood overtop of that. He could hear the murmur’s of the voices of his fellow Order members around him. His arm was lashed to something cold that felt like stone._

_ “Jack McMurdo,” said the Bodymaster’s disembodied voice, “are you already a member of the Ancient Order of Freemen?"  _

_ He bowed in assent, as best he could with one arm bound down. _

_ "Is your Order No. 29, Chicago?"  _

_ He bowed again.  _

_ "Dark nights are unpleasant," said the voice.  _

_ "Yes, for strangers to travel," he answered.  _

_ "The clouds are heavy."  _

_ "Yes, a storm is approaching."  _

_ "Are the brethren satisfied?" asked the Bodymaster.  _

_ There was a general murmur of assent.  _

_ "We know, Brother, by your sign and by your countersign that you are indeed one of us," said McGinty. "We would have you know, however, that in this country and in other countries of these parts we have certain rites, and also certain duties of our own which call for good men. Are you ready to be tested?"  _

_ "I am."  _

_ "Are you of stout heart?"  _

_ "I am."  _

_ "Take a stride forward to prove it."  _

_ As the words were said his arm was unbound and he felt two hard points in front of his eyes, pressing upon them so that it appeared as if he could not move forward without a danger of losing them. None the less, he nerved himself to step resolutely out, and as he did so the pressure melted away. There was a low murmur of applause.  _

_ "He is of stout heart," said the voice. "Can you bear pain?"  _

_ "As well as another," he answered.  _

_ "Test him!"  _

_ It was all he could do to keep himself from screaming out, for an agonizing pain shot through his forearm. He nearly fainted at the sudden shock of it; but he bit his lip and clenched his hands to hide his agony.  _

_ "I can take more than that," said he.  _

_ This time there was loud applause. A finer first appearance had never been made in the Order. Hands clapped him on the back, and the hood was plucked from his head. He stood blinking and smiling amid the congratulations of the brothers.  _

_ "One last word, Brother McMurdo," said McGinty. "You have already sworn the oath of secrecy and fidelity, and you are aware that the punishment for any breach of it is instant and inevitable death?"  _

_ "I am," said McMurdo.  _

_ "And you accept the rule of the Bodymaster for the time being under all circumstances?"  _

_ "I do."  _

_ "Then in the name of Order 341, Opal, I welcome you to its privileges and debates. You will put the liquor on the table, Brother Scanlan, and we will drink to our worthy Brother."  _

VVVVVVVVVVV

“A laugh?” Sherlock scoffed.

“Can you just trust me this once? Their dragon isn’t dead. I don’t know whom their dragon is- maybe Moriarty, maybe someone else- but he or she is NOT dead. They’re enthralled by someone else.”

“Oh, of that I have little doubt, but I have yet to determine the circumstances behind it,” Sherlock replied with a nod.

They were in their room at the Inn, the same one the ‘man in the yellow coat’, as their perp was being called, had been staying at. Sherlock was wearing the rune cuffs and nothing else, but sex was the furthest thing from John’s mind at the moment. After Sherlock had finished looking over the possible murderer’s things, and discussed his identification and rap sheet with the police, he had told them he and John would be turning in. Ted Baldwin, the man in the yellow coat, was wanted for everything from petty theft to murder but had never been caught even once. He had even managed to leave his escape vehicle behind this time- a black Vespa found in the gorse bushes by Sherlock- but not a soul had seen him since the murder and he’d not been back to the Inn for his things.

“You thought so already?” John asked.

“The missing dumbbell, John!” Sherlock gestured broadly with both hands, “The dumbbell! The missing wedding ring is suspicious as well, especially that the incredibly valuable [opal ring](http://www.aronstam.com/wp-content/gallery/home-page-gallery/opal-image-8-lo_.jpg) on his finger would have had to come off first and was then _replaced_ , but the dumbbell! Oh, you’re all so slow and stupid.”

Sherlock sighed in disgust and leaned back on the bed, picking at his cuffs with a bent paperclip.

“Where are you going?” John asked, knowing it wasn’t comfort that made Sherlock remove his cuffs.

“To the scene of the crime, of course, there’s something I must investigate without dull-witted detectives leaning over my shoulder.”

“Right, I’ll just change back into my clothes.”

“No, you’ll stay here and moan as though I’m ravaging you. That should keep them from checking up on us for a bit. In fact… get yourself nice and hard so I can do so once I’m back. I want inside that gorgeous arse of yours, so have yourself nice and loose for me,” Sherlock winked at him and then transformed into a tiny dragon and winked out of existence.

“My life sucks,” John snipped.

_< You’re a spoiled thrall with a danger kink, a gorgeous daughter, an sexy dragon, and the British Government for a brother-in-law. Your life is bliss.>_

_I hate you,_ John moaned as he stripped off his clothes and stretched out on the bed, stroking himself gently until he was hard enough to grip firmly.

_< You worship me> _Sherlock teased, and then paused and asked, < _Why does that thought make you uncomfortable? >_

_Not about you. Don’t worry about it. It’s related to the case,_ John began to shift on the bed to make it creek, pumping up and down on his lubed fingers as he eagerly prepared himself for something much larger.

_< I don’t like how invested in this you are. I don’t like you sad.>_

_I’ll be better once we’re all home,_ John replied, shifting into a different position and letting out a cry of excitement as he accidentally bumped his prostate while moving.

_< Okay. I’ll be back soon. I found what I was looking for.>_

Sherlock sounded smug as always, but no amount of insisting would convince him to tell him what he’d found. Then Sherlock re-appeared and pounced on John, already hard and eager to take his thrall. John tossed him the lube and he slicked himself up just as MacDonald walked into the room and gave them a suspicious glare which quickly turned into a shocked look at the sight of John’s spread cheeks and gaping hole.

“Evening Detective,” Sherlock smirked, “You can look but not touch.”

“Exhibitionist,” John accused, “Did you set this up?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock snickered.

“Your handcuffs,” MacDonald growled.

“Oh, all right,” Sherlock sighed, snapping them back in place, “I only took them off to pleasure my bonded, you know. It’s not as though I’m _escaping_.”

“They stay on or I’ll be staying in here with you.”

“By all means,” Sherlock winked, “Genius loves an audience, and I’m absolutely _brilliant_ in bed.”

MacDonald scowled, his Scottish accent thickening as he got annoyed with them, “None of that, now. We all have to work together. I’m sure you two can wait a day or two until we find that man in the yellow coat.”

John rolled over and gave Sherlock a horrified look, but Sherlock just raised an eyebrow at him and flopped down on his back on the bed, “Hop on, John, we’ll have to do it this way since my hands are bound.”

John grinned. His favorite position was riding Sherlock backwards and he hopped on that way despite the fact he knew that wasn’t what the man meant.

“John! Other way, I want to see your face.”

“You can see it after I’ve come all over myself,” John grinned, grasping Sherlock’s cock and sliding down on him with a heated moan.

Sherlock groaned and they stilled a moment to adjust while MacDonald scoffed and left in a huff. John moaned and leaned back, bracing his hands on either side of Sherlock’s body. The reason Sherlock didn’t like this position was because it left John’s shoulder stiff and sore for days, but John loved to plant his feet on either side of Sherlock’s body and fuck himself on that long, thin cock until he came from that alone. It also gave him the thrusting sensation that he missed when he was bottoming, even though he was thrusting into the air instead of a soft body.

Sherlock’s hands, bound as they were, cupped John’s buttocks to guide him as he began to ride Sherlock with eager grunts of pleasure. His sweet spot was absolutely _ravaged_ in this position, and he could control it completely. He worked it with every other thrust at first while Sherlock grunted and moaned beneath him, and then began to truly pleasure himself. John was soon lost to the heat building in his body, gasping and letting out soft cries as he spiraled towards his climax. Beneath him Sherlock was moaning and thrashing a bit on the bed, he could feel the man tossing his head. This position drove Sherlock wild because of the way John clenched each time he shifted up. He could tell by the pitch of his cries that the man was fighting off his orgasm, determined to come with or after John if at all possible.

“John! Fuck! I can’t last like this! Stop or slow down or switch… fuckfuckfuck!”

John gasped as Sherlock clawed at his arse in an attempt to hold him still as he came fast and hard, but John continued to ride him through his climax even when the man arched off the bed and nearly screamed from the stimulation on his spurting cock. Sherlock’s cries were what brought John over the edge and he came while gasping for breath, his cock bouncing in the air as he milked his prostate against Sherlock’s pulsing member. John opened his eyes in time to see the last ropes of come flying through the air and splattering across his chest. On a whim he pulled off of Sherlock’s softening cock and rolled over, forcing his shaking arms to obey him. He grabbed Sherlock’s sweaty curls and pressed the man’s face to his come-striped chest.

“Lick it up, lover,” John purred.

Sherlock gave John a wide-eyed look and then leaned forward to lap against one sticky nipple with an almost timid motion. John moaned at the sight and Sherlock, emboldened by his reaction, gripped his hips as best he could with his wrists bound and devoured the mess across John’s chest and stomach before sucking a possessive mark into the man’s neck.

“You bastard,” John panted, “I won’t be able to cover that.”

“Good.”

“Gods, I love you.”

“I _own_ you,” Sherlock growled.

“Mmm,” John agreed and collapsed beside the brilliant detective.

“Now you’ll have to clean _me_ up,” Sherlock smirked.

“If you think I’m using my tongue, you’re sorely mistaken,” John snickered, standing up to get a washcloth.

“Pity,” Sherlock pouted.

“Doctor, remember? I may keep myself clean, but I’m not licking you off after anal sex.”

“You’ve rimmed me before,” Sherlock scoffed.

“That’s different… though I admit only from a mental aspect.”

John cleaned Sherlock’s sensitive cock up as gently as he could. The man hissed anyway, but John was always worried about sanitation. He cleaned carefully under the foreskin before making him comfortable and then tucked the man beneath the covers lovingly. He tucked himself against his lover’s back when Sherlock rolled over and sighed in bliss.

“I’ve missed this, Sherlock.”

“So have I. I’ve barely slept. I’m exhausted.”

“You barely sleep anyway,” John snickered.

“John?” Sherlock whispered into the darkness just as John had begun to drift off, “Would you be afraid to sleep in the same room with a lunatic, a man with softening of the brain, an idiot whose mind has lost its grip?”

“Not in the least,” John mumbled back.

“Ah, that’s lucky,” Sherlock replied.

It wasn’t until the next morning that he recalled his words and started to worry. Sherlock woke up looking fatigued and quite pale. When John asked him what was wrong he gave him a pained look.

“Moran,” Sherlock whispered over their morning tea, “He’s figured out how to communicate with me telepathically. I wasn’t expecting that, but he’s a rather powerful thrall and he’s broken now, so…”

“But I thought breaking him was a good thing?” John asked in a alarm.

“It _is_ a good thing. Breaking him means breaking him entirely of Moriarty’s old influence. He’s spilling his secrets out to me now, but he’s become a constant whisper in the back of my mind. He and I aren’t compatible, not really. Because he’s an older thrall he’s technically compatible with anyone in that he will submit to any dragon easily now that he’s broken, and it’s only a matter of time before he takes on more of my traits, but his deeper traits will never disappear and my inexperience is showing. It’s… it’s like having a devil sitting on my shoulder. Everyone I see he thinks foul things about. You thought my tongue was sharp? John… John,” Sherlock’s eyes widened in horror at what he was whispering to his bonded, “he gives me reasons everyone around me should die and- gods help me- they make _sense_.”

John gripped Sherlock’s hand tightly, “He has to go. Now. Immediately.”

“I’ve told Mycroft as much,” Sherlock nodded, “His friend turned Moran down, though. Didn’t like the cut of him.”

“Then… cut him off the way you did Mary.”

“I can’t. That only works _before_ a thrall breaks- assuming they even need to be broken. Mary never succumbed to me, so snapping away from her was simple.”

MacDonald and Mason joined them and Sherlock pulled away from his conspiratorial conversation with John and faced them.

“You look like shite,” MacDonald determined.

“I didn’t sleep well,” Sherlock replied, “I miss my daughter.”

John nodded at that logical statement, though he doubted Sherlock really missed her. He had an odd way about him. As long as a person he cared about was safe, being out of their company for lengthy periods of time didn’t bother him. Of course, perhaps that didn’t extend to his daughter. He had been upset when he had to leave her with Mycroft.

“You pull this case off and you bet you’ll get a pardon from the Queen,” Mason intoned, ”We got a call from her this morning, that’s what took us so long coming downstairs. She says that Douglas was a personal friend of hers, and a distant cousin. She wants this solved something fierce.”

“Why didn’t you let me speak to her?” Sherlock asked angrily, “I could have questioned her!”

The two men looked scandalized, but Sherlock only rolled his eyes.

“Clearly,” Sherlock snapped, “She might have filled us in on Douglas’ past, which our current theories have decided must have caught up with him.”

“Well, we’ve got a suspect,” MacDonald pointed out, “Why not hunt him down and just ask him?”

Sherlock sighed and rubbed between his eyes, “You lot really have no _artistry_ have you? Where will you start looking? The rap sheet you showed me yesterday showed he was wanted on three continents! Clearly he moves easily and without detection. You’re chasing a ghost. Find the motive for the murder and you’ll find out more about your suspect. The past is always the key to the future because it repeats itself; especially where crime is concerned. There isn’t an original crime in the world, perhaps a slight variation or a combination of previous crimes, but not something _truly_ original. Find the motive and we’ll know what _motivates_ him or her. That, in turn, will allow us to predict his movements. Have _none_ of you read my website?”

Both men looked skeptical. Sherlock stood up in a tiff and stormed off.

“Where are you going?” MacDonald demanded to know, coming around the table with a muffin in one hand and a styrofoam cup of coffee in the other.

“The county hall!” Sherlock snapped over his shoulder.

John smiled at Mason and sipped his own coffee, “Are you done with the paper?”

“Aren’t you going after them?” Mason asked.

“Do I look stupid to you? Stroppy Sherlock is to be avoided at all costs. I’ll catch up with them later. The paper?”

Mason handed it over and excused as he called to check in with the office while he finished his coffee. John caught up on the morning news, silently monitoring Sherlock’s mind as he did so. The man’s mind was more scattered than usual, jumping from emotion to emotion, but otherwise he seemed all right. Until one more thought came through loud and clear that had John’s blood running cold.

_< Moran says MacDonald is the sort of straight cop that makes arrests impossible. It’s because of people like him that criminals go free. We’d be better off without him.>_

_Shit. Sherlock, don’t. Don’t do it. I’ll lose you forever if you go on a murdering spree!_

_< … I won’t because you asked.>_

John whipped out his phone.

**GET RID OF MORAN NOW. I DON’T CARE HOW. JUST DO IT. – JW**

**No need to be dramatic. – M**

**NOW! BEFORE SHERLOCK DOES SOMETHING WE CAN’T FIX! – JW**

There was no reply from Mycroft and John worried about it for hours until he saw Sherlock again, looking more himself. The dragon dropped into a chair at the restaurant they’d agreed to meet in for lunch and MacDonald pulled up the one across from him. John was across from Mason, who had just re-joined him after leaving for a meeting for a couple of hours. John had spent most of the day enjoying a walk around the neighborhood and texting Mycroft to ask after Lian’s welfare.

“Is he gone?” John asked hopefully.

“No,” Sherlock whispered, pressing a kiss to John’s temple, “But I’m feeling better now because I’ve got a plan.”

“So you’re okay?”

“Much better.”

John sighed in relief.

“So what were you two Nancy Drew’s up to?” Mason teased Sherlock and MacDonald, “Should I be looking for love-bites on MacDonald, too?”

“Fuck you,” MacDonald laughed, “You know I’m happily married.”

“Those two words don’t go together,” Mason snorted.

“Speak for yourself,” Sherlock scoffed, “Your spouse would likely be much sweeter if you refrained from degrading her by checking to see if she were having an affair. She is, by the way, but it only started two years ago rather than the eighteen that you’ve been married.”

“Sherlock,” John warned. Mason was gaping at him in horror while MacDonald just sighed and shook his head as though badly put upon.

“Likely she figured since you were going to continue to assume she was cheating that she might as well be getting some on the side, of course your recent issues with erectile dysfunction could also have set her off.”

_You of all people shouldn’t bring that up!_

_< I was never ashamed of it. Remember?>_

“You! You!” Mason growled slowly getting to his feet.

John stood as well in preparation to defend his annoying companion, but MacDonald interfered with a jovial laugh.

“You should have heard him do that to me! He walked in and deduced my entire past including the awkward fact I’m a masochist! Try explaining that to Scotland Yard!” MacDonald slapped his leg in amusement; “I got ribbed for months, including one would-be Domme who ordered me to beg for my coffee every morning!”

“Did you?” Mason asked with a smirk.

“Fuck yeah! She was ugly as sin, but she could Domme the shit out o’ me!”

They all had a laugh and Mason turned back to Sherlock with a frown, “You stay the fuck out of my personal life, robot.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but MacDonald cut him off: “Frankly, I was wondering why he didn’t do that sooner. He usually rips into people within a few minutes of meeting them.”

Sherlock turned his attention to MacDonald, “I wasn’t myself, but my thralls have set me to rights.”

“You have some news for us?” Mason asked with a sigh, giving up on baiting the un-phased dragon.

“He spent the whole time looking up the history of Groombridge Place,” MacDonald sighed, “And _flirting_ with every official he met. I thought that brother of yours was the politician?”

Sherlock ignored him and instead drummed his fingers on the table. Everyone else had been eating eagerly, but Sherlock had ignored the food John had repeatedly pushed his way. Now he picked up a fork and pushed it around for a moment before sighing and looking up at the men. When he opened his mouth, nothing came out. Sherlock looked frustrated, then angry, then grabbed John’s arm and shook it.

“Sorry, this happens sometimes. He’s going to have to communicate through me, but since we bonded taking me over isn’t as easy as it used to be. Hold on a tick.”

_What can I do? Relax so you can take me over or something?_

_< Easier than translating.>_

_Okay. Keep trying._

John took a deep breath and tried to relax his mind, but since that didn’t work he tried reciting bones in the hand until he felt Sherlock’s will slide into place. He didn’t fight it for once, he just let it wrap around him like a warm blanket. Instead of being an intrusion or a numbing blank as it had been in the past, it was a warm comfort that allowed him to simply let go and drift. He listened and watched in an odd sort of out-of-body experience that didn’t actually put him out of his body just… out of his mind?

“Erected in the fifth year of the reign of James I, and standing upon the site of a much older building, the Manor House of Groomsbridge presents one of the finest surviving examples of the moated Jacobean residence—'" 

"You are making fools of us, Mr. Holmes!" Mason snapped, looking back and forth between John and Sherlock with a mixture of confusion and impatience.

“-In 1644, of the concealment of Charles for several days in the course of the Civil War, and finally of a visit there by the second George, you will admit that there are various associations of interest connected with this ancient house."

"I don't doubt it, Mr. Holmes; but that is no business of ours. You might think history is the key to the future or whatever rot you were spilling before, but we’re not interested in an architectural history class!" 

Sherlock sighed and puppet-John continued on a different vein: “Give up the search for Baldwin.”

“Why?” MacDonald asked while Mason looked dumbfounded.

“Because you won’t find him. Ever.”

“What are you talking about,” MacDonald scoffed, “We’ve got a description, pictures, name, acquaintances…”

“Not the _important_ acquaintances, though. Not the ones you _need_ to be aware of. Not the ones associated with that mark on the dead man’s arm. I did tell you, nothing is new. Everything is repeated. Even myself, apparently…”

Sherlock slipped out of John’s mind and John turned aside to give him a confused look.

“Yourself?”

“Consulting Detective,” Sherlock sighed, “It seems I came up with the title but not the _concept_.”

“You mean there’s been another dragon running around solving crimes to keep his brilliant mind from rotting?” John scoffed, “Making thralls left and right and cutting up corpses…”

“I don’t think he ever studied the sciences the way I have,” Sherlock replied, still looking distant, “but he was brilliant in his own right.”

John gaped at Sherlock, “You… really? No nasty… ‘but I’m better’ or ‘Except he was so’ or…”

“I _can_ admire another man’s abilities, can’t I?”

“Not without wanting something from him, like information or something.”

Sherlock sipped his tea and ignored John’s comment.

“So, this Baldwin is a consulting detective? Or a consulting criminal? Or…”

“He’s a nothing,” Sherlock replied, waving John off, “I mean _Douglas_.”

“Douglas?” John echoed.

Sherlock nodded, “You’ll see what I mean tonight.”

“I hate it when he says that,” MacDonald sighed.

“I need you to call Mrs. Douglas and inform her we’ll be dragging the moat.”

“It’s three feet deep, no one would drown in that!” MacDonald scoffed.

“We’re not looking for someone in the _moat_ , we’re looking for someone _outside_ of the moat,” Sherlock smirked.

Though it took some convincing on John’s part, the two coppers finally agreed to go with Sherlock to the edge of the moat just outside the room Douglas had been murdered in. There they knelt behind the bushes not far from where the Vespa had been found hidden. Sherlock had dawned clothing, including his warm jacket and scarf. John still thought he looked sexy clothed and was smirking to himself about it as he shivered with the man’s arms wrapped around him in the damp chill. Sherlock occasionally pressed a warm kiss against John’s cheek or neck. He loved to kiss the tattoo of his dragon form that graced John’s skin. 

Just when MacDonald and Mason were growling that they wanted to head back to the hotel they saw a light move behind the curtains in the study. The curtains moved and the window creaked open. Someone leaned out, holding a torch in one hand and something long in the other. While they watched with baited breath the man used the long object to fish something out of the water. He grunted as he heaved it up, the object apparently weighing a considerable amount. Once he had fished it out and drug it inside Sherlock released John and gripped Mason and MacDonald tightly by the arms. He transformed and John grabbed on in time for them to teleport into the study.

Barker let out a shout of fear and stumbled back, the drenched bundle clanking loudly to the ground. Sherlock swept in and gathered it up, setting it on the nearby desk and tugging the ropes open to show what was inside.

“Here’s our missing dumbbell!” Sherlock cried cheerfully, “A room full of police and detectives and not a soul wondered why a man would only use one dumbbell? With water that close by? And what’s this? Ah, a yellow coat and someone’s clothes, could it be Ted Baldwin’s?”

“Why would Ted Baldwin’s clothes be in there?” MacDonald asked, snapping cuffs on Barker’s wrists.

“You’ll have difficulty proving he is guilty of anything. Thralls are never convicted for committing crimes their dragons put them to,” Sherlock replied.

“Lizzy Douglas told him to do that?” Mason asked, referring to Ivy Douglas’ daughter, “Then she’d enthralled them before we called her! Did she kill her father?”

“No, no, she hasn’t enthralled them at all, they just quit acting as though they were in shock when she showed up. Remarkably fast, actually, it only convinced me further that John was correct. John Douglas never died; the man in your morgue is Ted Baldwin.”

At that moment the wall on the far side of the study slid open and a man stepped out to face the shocked police.

“John Douglas, I presume,” Sherlock stated, stepping forward and taking the man’s hand in a firm clasp.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Douglas sighed, “I knew when I heard your name I was done for, I’ve read too much about you in the paper not to realize I’d met my match. I’ve written out the truth of what brought Baldwin after me after all these years.”

Douglas held out a sheath of papers with his neat handwriting scrawled across it.

“Somehow I doubt it was as simple as a thrall you were fighting over?” Sherlock smirked.

Douglas threw back his head and laughed, “A thrall? Gods no, though a woman was involved. Baldwin couldn’t enthrall anyone. He was a _defective_ dragon. That’s why he joined the Eminent Order of Freemen, befriended the Bodymaster, and manipulated him into creating the Scowrers. He was a very intelligent dragon, but he had no abilities besides his own transformation.”

It was then that John got the distinguished honor of seeing Sherlock Holmes shocked.

VVVVVVVVVV

_Jack sat in his room with a homemade metal symbol of a circle with a triangle inside, which he’d duplicated out of a coat hanger. He was repeatedly heating and re-branding his arm once every hour. It was torturous, but it was infinitely necessary. After his initiation he had sat threw a reading of the minutes and discovered that the Eminent Order of Freemen thrived by blackmailing the businesses in and around the Valley into paying them ‘insurance’ to keep their businesses safe from the Scowrers, which were one and the same. They also made money by selling the Scowrers as assassins for opal miners who were willing to pay high to get rid of their neighbors. Now they intended to add Jack McMurdo’s fake opals into the mix; a benefit to all since mining opals were incredibly dangerous even without the Scowrers interfering in honest business._

_He’d already participated in the beating of the editor of a newspaper that was publishing information on the Order. He was aware of several hits about to go down shortly. It was all a matter of gaining a bit more information. Sadly, the trial had been dismissed when he and the others had been arrested. The Scowrers had too many judges in their pockets._

_Ettie was suspicious. She was certain that he was in as a criminal and was devastated, but could not contain her love for him. She was as faithful as a flower was to the sun, but that didn’t stop her from begging him to give up the Order on a daily basis. He could feel her in the back of his mind, praying to her goddess for her fiancés deliverance from a life of crime. He had promised her that he would leave the Scowrers- and in turn the Order- within six months time. So he sped up his timetable by enthralling Bodymaster McGinty._

_Within a few months he was Inner Deacon, with every prospect of some day succeeding McGinty as Bodymaster, and was now so necessary to the councils of his comrades that nothing was done without his help and advice. The more popular he became, however, with the Freemen, the blacker were the scowls which greeted him as he passed along the streets of Opal Valley. In spite of their terror the citizens were taking heart to band themselves together against their oppressors. Rumours had reached the Order of secret gatherings in the Herald office and of distribution of firearms among the law-abiding people. But McGinty and his men were undisturbed by such reports. They were numerous, resolute, and well armed. Their opponents were scattered and powerless. It would all end, as it had done in the past, in aimless talk and possibly in impotent arrests. So said McGinty, Jack, and all the bolder spirits._

_Sadly, his cover was nearly blown. A letter had been intercepted by the weakest of the Brothers. He had to make a move fast and Ettie was holding out hope that he would be free of the Order soon so they could begin a life together. He stood and strode into the meeting with his head held high and a plan in place._

_ "Eminent Bodymaster," he said, in a solemn voice, "I claim urgency!"  _

_ "Brother McMurdo claims urgency," said McGinty. "It's a claim that by the rules of this Order takes precedence. Now Brother, we attend you."  _

_ Jack took the letter from his pocket.  _

_ "Eminent Bodymaster and Brethren," he said, "I am the bearer of ill news this day; but it is better that it should be known and discussed, than that a blow should fall upon us without warning which would destroy us all. I have information that the most powerful and richest organizations in this state have bound themselves together for our destruction, and that at this very moment there is a Pinkerton detective, one Birdy Edwards, at work in the valley collecting the evidence which may put a rope round the necks of many of us, and send every man in this room into a felon's cell. That is the situation for the discussion of which I have made a claim of urgency."  _

_ There was a dead silence in the room. It was broken by the chairman.  _

_ "What is your evidence for this, Brother McMurdo?" he asked.  _

_ "It is in this letter which has come into my hands," said McMurdo. He read the passage aloud. "It is a matter of honour with me that I can give no further particulars about the letter, nor put it into your hands; but I assure you that there is nothing else in it which can affect the interests of the Order. I put the case before you as it has reached me."  _

_ "Let me say, Mr. Chairman," said one of the older brethren, "that I have heard of Birdy Edwards, and that he has the name of being the best man in the Pinkerton service."  _

_ "Does anyone know him by sight?" asked McGinty.  _

_ "Yes," said McMurdo, "I do."  _

VVVVVVVVVV

“Then what?” John asked, nearly breathless with anticipation.

“Then,” Douglas explained, “I lured them into a trap, of course. I told them that I had intercepted another correspondence that showed that Birdy Edwards would be appearing in one of the mines. They went and I had it surrounded. I announced myself as Birdy Edwards and arrested them all. They stood trial, but Baldwin transformed into dragon form and escaped to hunt me down for _decades_.“

“Wait, so you’re Birdy Edwards, the detective? I thought you _weren’t_ an official detective?” Sherlock cut in.

“I was,” Douglas nodded, “Both Birdy Edwards and Jack McMurdo, and now I am John Douglas.”

“Then Ettie Shafter is now Ivy Douglas,” John smiled, “You two stayed together.”

“Sadly, no,” Douglas sighed sadly, “My healing abilities were no match for an illness that took her suddenly from me. Ivy and I married shortly after I returned to England and she helped me raise the children I had with Ettie before having her own. She is a brave and wonderful woman. Baldwin caught up with me after I returned to England and I’ve been hounded by him ever since. I kept most of it from Ivy, but she sensed things as a good bonded will. I added my dearest Cecil as a bonded in order to protect Ivy… I never expected to love a second person as much as I did Ivy. Hell, I never expected to love again after Ettie’s death.”

“Then all this is because of the arrests you made?” John clarified.

“Yes, and they’ll hunt me forever now that he’s joined in with Moriarty. It’s a matter of making a statement now. If I’d been believed to be dead I could have changed my name and started over again, but now that my attempt at subterfuge has failed my life is forfeit, and with it the people I love,” Douglas sank into his chair in misery.

“Well, now that this is solved,” Sherlock turned away, “I have a thrall to fetch who will solve that problem for you and a few for me as well.”

“A thrall?” Douglas asked.

“A thrall!” John gaped, “A thrall that is an even better shot than I am!”

Sherlock smirked and then transformed and vanished. When he returned John was more than happy to help Sherlock pin him to the ground to be taken as a thrall. He did not struggle, however. Instead he smiled happily and was accepted easily as Douglas’ thrall. 

“If you need me, Master,” Moran smirked, “I’ll be up on the roof with a rifle.”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock slept like the dead for six hours straight after Moran had been transferred over. John lay on the bed with him, their daughter between them, comparing his lovers curls to those of his beautiful daughter. She was awake but silent, seeming to know that her father needed to rest. She gurgled and grumbled quietly, playing with a sparkling ball that lit up when jarred. Her wide eyes were the single most intriguing things John had ever seen; they still resembled John’s and he hoped that she kept them. 

Sherlock’s peaceful slumber was cut short when he suddenly jolted awake with a gasp as if of pain. He turned and scrambled for John’s mobile and held it up in alarm. John sat up, wondering if some of Moran’s influence had remained behind. 

“Moriarty!” Sherlock gasped.

John grasped the phone and read the message: **Dear me, Mr. Holmes, dear me!**

“What about him?” John asked in concern, scooping up a fussing Lian, “That says practically nothing.”

“He’s moving on the Queen!” Sherlock scrambled up, his breathing fast, “We’re called to war, John!”

 

CHAPTER 56

Molly and Kate were snuggled on the soft foam mattress with towers of gold and gems surrounding them in neat, organized piles. They were back-to-back, their bare buttocks and shoulders touching to create a teardrop in the space between their arched backs. Pillows supported their round bellies and oil glistened on them, lovingly stroked on by their dragon-lady as she admired and praised them. The two thralls were sound asleep at the moment, but woke with slow sighs and stretches at the feel of the wind from their dragon-lady’s wings. Irene leaned down and kissed them the rest of the way awake, holding her distress down despite the fear curling in her belly. She stroked their stomachs gently as the two women rolled slowly onto their backs, automatically linking hands, and smiled up at her.

“Do you want us?” Kate asked, stretching and spreading her legs invitingly. Molly giggled shyly, blushing at her bluntness but also spreading her thickening thighs.

“As delectable as you both look, I’m afraid I can not remain. The Queen has need of me.”

“You’re siding with her?” Molly asked, far more aware of what was going on politically than Kate was.

“Yes. With her and with… him.”

Neither of them asked who ‘him’ was, they knew all too well that their Mistress was still more than a bit in love with Sherlock Holmes. His promise to find a way to impregnate Kate and Molly had been brushed aside when Irene had noticed an odd change in her body after handling Lian. Sherlock had asked John to look her over, but he’d had nothing to offer. Instead, Sherlock had advised her to follow her instincts. Irene had gone home to her lovely thralls to find them slowly undulating in bed together. The sight of her thralls making love together had driven her wild with lust. She’d taken them both to her hoard, pressed them down onto the mattress, and taken them frantically. Her clitoris had stretched out, a pleasure bordering on pain, until it was just long enough to press inside of them. It was too thin to give them pleasure that way, but when she climaxed from the resulting friction…

Irene leaned down and pressed kisses to her thralls stomachs. It had taken several times to impregnate her thralls and she cherished the resulting baby bumps.

“What if he switches sides?” Molly asked in concern, recalling some of Sherlock’s thoughts about Moriarty and the Queen from her stint as his thrall.

“Then I side with him,” Irene replied firmly, “Should something happen to me…”

Irene paused to sooth their fears, pressing kisses to their foreheads and holding them tightly beneath her wings.

“Hush, my loves, hush. Should something happen to me you will automatically switch to being the thrall of your unborn children. This is adequate, but you will need someone to care for you. Go to Mr. Holmes. He’ll welcome you… in theory if not in word or deed.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Kate and Molly whispered through their tears.

“I love you both with all my heart. If my husband should ask after you and the children, give him visitation. He should be allowed to see my young.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“You will go to him should neither Sherlock nor myself survive. If even he does not, try Mycroft Holmes. I have no doubt he will survive even his dragon’s death.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Irene rose and left them in the cool, dry tunnel that held her hoard. It was a part of an old rum runners smuggling tunnel beneath her home in London. She moved the barracade in place, but did not lock it. If her thralls had to escape they would need to be able to leave without too much effort. It made the hackles rise on the back of her neck to leave them unprotected, but needs must.

Irene checked her phone once more before taking flight again. One message from _him_.

**Happy New Year Ms. Adler. – SH**

XXXXXXXXXX

John was pulled into Sherlock’s scale-covered arms and felt the twist of teleportation. He found himself in Lestrade and Mycroft’s bedroom where the two men were struggling into their clothes, their night clothes scattered about Mycroft’s stylish room.

“We’re nearly dressed,” Lestrade stated.

“Mycroft, I want a word with you,” Sherlock stated, his voice cold with anger.

John glanced up in surprise but just then the monitor let out a wail and he was quickly hurrying to Lian’s side. He found his daughter had managed to roll onto her belly and scooped her up with proud praise to change her nappy and fetch a bottle of formula.

XXX

Mycroft could _feel_ Sherlock’s anger, but he had no idea what had brought it on. Lian was in excellent condition and John surely had no complaint about his stay. Had he wanted sex from either Gregory or even Mycroft himself it would have been provided immediately; anything to keep their dragon’s bonded happy. Every other wish and need had been provided. Had he been offended by them having sex in front of him? Or their offers?

“You haven’t a clue, have you?” Sherlock asked, turning to face Mycroft, “For once, I’ve managed to stump you right when I’d rather have you reading me perfectly.”

“I have never been able to read you the way John and Greg can, you know that.”

“You’re being intentionally obtuse; you know what I meant.”

“Perhaps it would be better if you told me what is upsetting you instead of waiting for me to _guess_ ,” Mycroft hissed.

“You’re a dragon.”

Mycroft winced and turned away, running a hand over his face, “I’m not a dragon.”

“You are. All our adult lives I’ve been trying to figure out why you became enraged when I transformed the first time, why you were so _jealous_ , why you were frustrated by my lack of acceptance of it. It’s because you’re one yourself but you can’t claim it.”

“I’m _not_ a dragon!” Mycroft shouted angrily, “I just look like one! I can’t even change size! Can’t fly! Can’t heal! Nothing!! By your own lack of knowledge up until this point _I don’t even smell like one!_ ”

He could feel his face flush in anger and shame, but when he turned back to face Sherlock he didn’t see the anticipated pity. _Of course not, this is Sherlock. He doesn’t waist time on pity._

“Mycroft… brother… My…” Sherlock stepped forward and placed a hand on each shoulder, “You are not the only one.”

“Don’t you think I _know that_?”

“The one I met- while deceased- _did_ smell like a dragon. He _could_ change sizes before his death. He couldn’t create thralls.”

“I know of one that can heal but not transform. I know of another that can only transform into a dragon the size of a _mouse_ with the ability to spit acid- for what little good it does him. I know yet another that can…”

“Good, bring them all.”

“What?”

“Contact them. You have the ability.”

“Why? The Queen acknowledges us less than she did _you_!” Mycroft snarled at the injustice.

“Because all of our freedom is at stake. _Mycroft_. I’m as torn by this as you are. Moriarty seems like he would be more fair to us, like he would respect the fact that you and those you mentioned aren’t _proper_ dragons, but he would _destroy_ _us all_.”

“I know that, Sherlock, but the Queen didn’t call for _us!_ ”

“She called for all my thralls, and you are one of them. I call for you to be yourself. Do you respect me? Love me? As your dragon and brother?”

“Yes,” Mycroft whispered.

“Then stand by my side,” Sherlock pleaded, pulling him close again so they were nearly nose to nose, “Fight _with_ me instead of with me! As a dragon! Show the world that you are _not_ inferior.”

Mycroft’s eyes looked conflicted, “Are you going to take Gregory from me?”

“No. Never. He’s as much yours as mine.”

Mycroft hesitated, then raised his chin proudly, “Of course I stand by my Queen… and my dragon.”

XXX

“Mycroft is a dragon, too?” John asked in shock when Sherlock entered the nursery to press a kiss to their daughter’s head.

“Yes.”

“If there are more dragons out there- many more- what does this mean?”

“It means the next step in the evolutionary cycle has been taking place for a long time. It means people who we have thought non-dragon are more than likely either non-powerful dragons or dormant dragons. Their children or their children’s children will have the power that I wield and more. It means that the plan I’ve had to make dragons and humans equal is even more necessary than I originally thought. Baldwin was a step away from being Moriarty over a hundred years ago before Douglas defeated him. How many others are out there just waiting to take over the throne?”

“Who is going to stay and care for Lian?”

“We’re taking her to Irene’s hoard. She’s allowing us to leave Lian with her pregnant thralls.”

“I wasn’t aware you’d managed it!” John explained cheerfully.

“ _I_ didn’t,” Sherlock smirked, “Nature beat me to godhood once again. Irene managed it on her own. Evolution, John! Our species is finally taking the next step, and it’s decidedly _not boring!”_

Sherlock gently lifted Lian from John’s arms, kissed his cooing daughter, shifted form, and teleported away with a diaper bag clutched in one claw. John heard a call from the hall and hurried out to join Lestrade and Mycroft. They hurried outside where Mycroft met a group of individuals in his yard. They were arriving by wing, leg, cab, and car. One even winked into existence in _human_ form. Sherlock looked around himself.

“I leave their organization to you. I’ll be taking Lestrade and John as my thrall representatives.”

“You said-” Mycroft started.

“He’ll only distract you. He’ll be back in your bed as soon as this… battle… is over.”

“Make sure he knows-”

“Yes,” Sherlock transformed into his dragon form and scooped Lestrade and John tight against his serpentine body.

John glanced at Lestrade and saw the wonder in his eyes. He’d rarely seen Sherlock this big before and John vividly recalled his own astonishment at the dragon’s beauty. Sherlock purred, preening under their mutual admiration, and then transported them straight to the security gates of Windsor Castle.

A glance around at the colorful guard present let John know that the Queen was in residence. Sherlock lowered them to their feet and then mentally instructed them to climb onto his back. Sherlock strode forward, ignored by the guards who clearly were expecting him, his body moving in a writhing motion with his belly close to the ground, his wings folded and his short legs moving swiftly up the long drive to the castle’s gates. They went through the Norman Gate and into the Upper Ward. Many other dragons were milling about the courtyard of the Upper Ward with varying numbers of thralls, but Sherlock was quickly shown inside. John gaped around him, leaning back into Lestrade’s arms as the man gripped him tightly.

“It’s fine,” John whispered over his shoulder to him.

“I’m riding into Windsor Castle on a dragon’s back. How is this fine?”

John smirked, “Just don’t piss on me, yeah?”

“I’m not making promises,” Lestrade snorted.

They reached a large chamber with furniture that had been moved around in a haphazard way to make room for some of the larger dragon members.

“Sherlock Holmes,” A male voice called, and they headed in the direction until they stopped beside Douglas, “I’m glad to see you here.”

John and Lestrade slid down and Sherlock transformed into human form, grasping the much older man’s hands.

“This is weird,” Lestrade whispered to John.

“Why?”

“They’re both naked.”

“That’s never bothered you before.”

“It’s never been more than Sherlock before.”

“Adler?”

“Women don’t count.”

“Hypocrite.”

“Will you two stop muttering?” Sherlock scolded, “We have to get ready for _war,_ remember?”

John fell into military stance automatically and Douglas gave him an appraising look. Lestrade was smirking at him, but John ignored him.

“What are the thralls to do?” John asked, his voice crisp.

Sherlock gave him a heated glance, but got to business, “The thralls are to take up arms against the other thralls. You’ll be given armor and weapons.”

“What about the Queens Army? Why are we fighting? What is this, a draft?” Lestrade demanded.

“Thralls will be fighting against Thralls. In this sort of battle the army does not get involved. Who would they battle? Dragons? Thralls of dragons? The second a non-thrall moved in the dragon who owned them would _destroy_ them. Could you see that happening John, in that active imagination of yours? Could you see fire, ice, boiling water, acid, all raining down on England?”

John shuddered in horror and Lestrade calmly picked up a handgun from a rack that was being pushed around the room on wheels. He walked a few feet away to collect bits of armor from another. John followed after to show him how to put it on since its design was different than the police issued task force vests. Once garbed John picked up a rifle, ammo, and a string of grenades. Lestrade gave them a look of distaste and John pointed out the Minimi light machine gun and showed him how to hold it.

“Do you think any of the people we’ll be up against will have experience with this sort of thing?” Lestrade asked, nodding to the weapons.

“If Moriarty’s thralls are there? Yeah. They’ll all be criminals.”

“Shit,” Lestrade stated, looking uneasy.

“We’ll be okay, just stick by me.”

“That won’t be your only concern,” Sherlock stated, stepping close to his thralls, “The Queen will be flying in dragon form. She is _powerful_. You must not look at her at all or you could be enthralled, even without eye contact. She will be turning all her energy on Moriarty himself, but we don’t know the limit of his powers except that he _claims_ he can’t teleport. Be cautious and stay safe, my loves.”

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s lips and Lestrade’s forehead before strolling away to where Mycroft was standing uncomfortably in the nude. He looked as though a bad smell were in the air, but as they watched he transformed into a breathtaking red-gold English dragon just a bit larger than an African elephant. Lestrade, who had been aware of the situation but apparently not really put it in context yet, gasped at the sight and gripped John’s arm.

“I’ve looked into his eyes,” Lestrade hissed at John as though scandalized.

“You still hear Sherlock’s thoughts?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re fine,” John shrugged, “So far it seems he can’t enthrall anyone, and he’s one of Sherlock’s thralls anyway.”

“I just… I feel like I’m _cheating_ on Sherlock!”

“What, with your boyfriend?” John snickered, “That makes even less sense than my issues.”

“Oh, you mean the whole thing where you were with me but demand monogamy from Sherlock?”

“Oi, I’m being monogamous, too,” John frowned, “A bit of looking… nothing more. I’m not stopping Sherlock taking thralls that _aren’t_ homicidal maniacs.”

Lestrade snickered and elbowed John who grinned back at him.

“When this is over…” John started, and then stopped because he was genuinely concerned that they wouldn’t all make it out alive.

“Yeah,” Lestrade nodded.

Irene Adler showed up at this point and swept towards Sherlock with a radiant smile. Sherlock greeted her with a peck to each cheek and congratulated her on her conception with Molly and Kate.

“Your beautiful daughter is keeping my girls amused,” Ms. Adler smiled, “They’re cooing and wondering who their babies will look like.

“How much longer for them, do you think?”

“Oh a few more months, I suspect. We aren’t certain of the exact conception date, but I can’t think it will be sooner than that.”

“Assuming a ten month gestation period, that seems reasonable,” Sherlock nodded, “I’m sure John is eager to see the babies. He’s become rather maudlin about children since becoming a mother.”

“Oh, and when will we see you egg-heavy?” Ms. Adler teased.

Sherlock sniffed as though insulted, “You wouldn’t see me at all. I’d be in my hoard the entire time.”

“So it _will_ happen eventually?” Ms. Adler demanded.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock replied, glancing aside at John who was trying not to look hopeful.

Eventually a call was made that Moriarty had sent an emissary.

“Holmes!” A man called and Mycroft and Sherlock both looked over, “A woman calling herself your ‘grandmother’ wants to see you.”

Mycroft kept his dragon form and Sherlock transformed to his. Together they walked out the doors and out the George IV Gateway. Shan stood there in full dragon form. She was at least forty feet long, and her orange and black serpentine body tapered less than Sherlock’s did. She had whiskers and a crest of thick, bristled hair instead of his odd antennae facial features, and the horns on her head resembled two-pronged antlers. She was both beautiful and fearsome; All four of those present kept their eyes carefully averted.

Sherlock transformed first, never one to be kept silent.

“How _exactly_ are you our grandmother?” Sherlock demanded, “All records I’ve found show our last three grandmothers to be someone entirely different on both sides.”

Shan transformed, managing to look stately and powerful despite being very short, wrinkly, and naked as the day she was born.

“You did not look carefully enough, Mr. Holmes,” Shan stated.

“Oh, please, family should use first names, at least,” Sherlock stated with venom.

Shan smirked, “I am your great, great, great, great, grandmother. I am five hundred years old. I gave birth to your great, great, great, grandfather at the tender age of twelve, _before_ my dragon abilities emerged.”

“Shit!” Lestrade expressed from John’s right. John elbowed him silent.

“He showed no abilities himself,” Shan continued, ”and was raised by his sire and that lying white man’s wife. To my knowledge you are the first of that line, directly descended from me, to show abilities. Doubtless it is because of other dragons who have married in, as shown in your brother here, but you are clearly my heir.”

“And that means what to you?” Sherlock asked, “You clearly knew this was the case _before_ you threatened the life of my child and your several times granddaughter!”

“Business is business, Mr. Holmes, and you were in the way of my _business_. You think Moriarty is the only one with aspirations of power? I am _owed_ power! I should have had the throne in China! Now I will once more. Moriarty will take Britain and I will have my homeland properly under Dragon control once more!”

“Dragon control?” Sherlock snorted, “Dragons will soon be all there is. You might try for joining the Communist party and rising in power instead.”

“Thank you for your recommendation, but I don’t think we’ll be seeing the likes of _him_ -“ here she acknowledged Mycroft with a nod and a sneer, “-rise to any sort of power. Do you?”

“Oh, no, not him,” Sherlock laughed, “Why, who is he after all? Just the British Government, is all.”

Shan looked surprised, “Oh, did Moriarty keep you out of the loop? Or is he as blind as you are?”

Shan snarled and spat on the ground, “Elizabeth II is challenged. She will earn her throne or surrender it. What is her choice?”

“Queen Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God Queen of this Realm and of Her other Realms and Territories, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith, issues a counter-challenge of single combat.”

“Declined,” Shan laughed, “Moriarty wishes to see blood today. She can fight or not as she wishes, but today many will die.”

“For _what?_ ” Sherlock demanded, “What point does this serve? Even if he takes the throne, he’s too unstable. The people will never stand for it. The army will rise against him. We’ll have civil war.”

Shan smirked and out of the corner of his eye John saw her eyes sparkling with delight.

“Oh!” Sherlock breathed, “So _that’s_ what this is about! You’re just waiting for it! Not just civil war, _world war._ You’re waiting to conquer Britain! With your ability to teleport it would be _simple._ You won’t even have to force China to be a monarchy again, you’ll just slide into this one and everyone will accept you because you’ll be the lesser of two evils. Does he know? Moriarty?”

“He does, but he has no protest to make, him being my thrall.”

John nearly made eye contact while gaping at her, but just managed to avoid it. Moriarty wasn’t in control at all! He was _being_ controlled! How much of his madness was from Shan and how much was his own? Despite it all, John suspected Moriarty was acting mostly on his own volition, that he might not even know he _was_ a thrall! He wouldn’t be the first man or woman to not realize their own enthrallment until the dragon decided to utilize them.

“You are a force to be reckoned with,” Sherlock acknowledged with a bow, “I shall enjoy destroying you.”

“You have a wild imagination, Mr. Holmes,” Shan laughed, and transformed with a swirl of dust from the nearby roadside and vanished from their sight.

“Will you tell the Queen?” John demanded as Sherlock transformed and they hurried to follow after himself and Mycroft.

_< No need. She has her spies, she’ll be aware of it all.>_

What followed was a war counsel that Sherlock’s thralls were left out of, though Mycroft was part of it as a high-ranking government official. John and Lestrade mingled with the other thralls and less important dragons. John was careful to avoid eye contact with anyone since it was nearly impossible to tell who was and who wasn’t a dragon. Some of them were making it obvious by transforming and comparing how they looked, laughing and teasing each other as they freely showed themselves for the first time. One poor bloke who was a good 6’3” as a human was a mere 12” as a dragon. When he was ribbed for it he calmly pointed out that his dragon form was as long as his ‘little dragon’ was when hard. That resulted in a round of laughter and mock cheering.

At one point he saw what he thought was another dragon-woman like Adler, but when he hurried over the woman transformed into an Indian woman. John gaped at her and she smirked at him.

“Naga,” She explained with a wink, and he looked away quickly to avoid being enthralled. She laughed at him, transformed, and slithered away with another Naga man’s arm linked with hers.

Finally there was a scuffle and the door opened to show the dragons emerging. Sherlock transmitted their instructions at the same time that a man took up a megaphone and announced it to the room. They were to stand on the walls- on ladders where locations weren’t available for people to stand- and defend the gates for as long as possible. The dragons would be filling up on water, plants, flint, and whatever else they needed to make their deadly breath possible. They would take to the air as soon as Moriarty, Shan, and whoever else winged they had with them appeared.

< _You understand? >_

_Yes. We’ll stick together if possible, but it’s not so easy on the battlefield._

John and Lestrade took up position on the wall, weapons at the ready. There was a cloud of dust in the distance and a decided lack of cars on the roads. John and Lestrade were on the side of the walls facing a copse of trees, so they didn’t see their targets until they had emerged. John started firing immediately and the rest were not far behind him. It would have been like slaughtering fish in a barrel had John not seen through Sherlock’s eyes that the advancing force was _thousands_ thick. Clearly Shan and Moriarty weren’t the only dragon on that side to draw in this many thralls.

Unfortunately, they had either underestimated Moriarty’s influence or overestimated Sherlock and Mycroft’s, because someone was suddenly pulled off the wall to John’s right _from behind him_. John turned in horror to see that the ‘limited’ dragons had turned on them. They were swooping up and tearing people off the walls. John ducked to avoid being snatched, but Lestrade was grabbed in a large claw. He turned in horror to watch his thrallmate be carried across the swarming mass of enemy thralls and be dropped from several dozen feet in the air. He plummeted with a scream and was swallowed up by the masses below him.

John was thrown to the ground, stones and dirt raining down on him from some sort of explosion, but other than having the wind knocked out of him he was unharmed. He struggled up, grabbed the first weapon he saw, and fired at whoever seemed to be an enemy. There were no colors to distinguish them. Some of Moriarty’s force had (likely stolen) armor similar to theirs, though most were in street clothes or wearing homemade armor. One was dressed in full armor as a fucking _knight_ and wielding a broadsword; it would have been comical had he not lopped off a man’s head a second after John first saw him.

John fired until he was forced to the ground where he struggled to disarm the knife-wielding man who squirmed on top of him. He finally snapped the man’s wrist and slit his throat, blood raining down on him and temporarily blinding him. When he finally was able to see again he looked around to find everyone pointing up into the sky. John didn’t have to look up to know what they’d see.

The Queen’s dragons had taken wing.

 

CHAPTER 57

John snatched up two guns and took out three enemies before people recalled they weren’t watching a dragonoid version of a fireworks display and began fighting again. John took a graze to the hip from someone firing low and then heard a sound unlike anything he’d ever heard before: the screaming of outrage and pain as the dragons began to tear each other apart. One fell from the sky in a screaming ball of flame, taking out a tower.

John dove back into combat just in time to safe himself from a horrid death, but it wasn’t from the battle surrounding him. The Queen had teleported in above them. He knew this because the sky was quite suddenly dark and thralls all around had gone slack and were staring blankly up at the sky. Against his orders from Sherlock, against his own better judgment, John looked up as he felt Sherlock’s sudden pain.

The dragons were all falling from the sky in a radius around the gigantic mass that was the Queen, who he carefully avoided looking at. As John stared in horror the shock-wave of the [Queen’s](http://macromeme.com/dog/save-them-from-me.html) teleportation into the area knocked first Moriarty and then Sherlock out of the sky. His blue-green beloved plummet to the ground.

_< JOHN!!>_

“SHERLOCK!”John shouted, mentally and out loud.

Then the shockwave hit him too and everything went black.

John had no idea how long he was unconscious but when he awoke he was lying on his back, gasping for air as his lungs burned in agony. The wind must have been knocked out of him, though he had no recollection of being without air. When John gasped in a few breaths his vision cleared. His first view was of the [Queen](http://fc02.deviantart.net/fs47/f/2009/236/e/4/Deathwing_Wallpaper_by_Nabucodorozor.jpg); she was beyond gigantic, larger than Windsor, and the dragons that had regained the air around her were like specks on her sides. She was covered in horns and spurs, her body a literally thorny armor, her head resembling more a triceratops than a dragon. He was feeling a drawing, obsessive feeling- as if his only goal in life should be to worship the great beast above him- when she opened her mouth and fire spewed out like molten rock and rained down on dragon and thrall alike. John screamed, closing his eyes and throwing his arms up to cover his face in fear as the world became hot and dry around him. Somehow he was spared the death of two thralls on either side of him who were melted down to bones and the jerky-like remains of their muscles and tendons.

John struggled upright, horror unlike any he’d ever felt on the battlefield filling him. Unashamed of his cowardice, he ran for the nearest cover and pressed against he wall between a thrall and a small dragon that were doing the same. They clung to each other, keeping their eyes down and shaking in fear at the conflagration around them. It wasn’t until he was pressing close to them that he felt the throb in his ribs, bile rising in his throat from the pain. He was certain they were bruised- possibly even broken. Only adrenalin and pure fear had allowed him to make it to safety. He would be useless in a fight now; he could barely even raise his hands to fire a gun. As he looked around the courtyard he saw how truly lucky he was. Some hadn’t even survived the shockwave; having their necks broken by the angle they had been at when it hit them. Others were screaming and writhing, half their bodies burning and no efforts by friend or enemy to put them out were successful.

“Oh, gods, I’ve got three kids. I shouldn’t be here. Oh, gods,” The man to his right sobbed.

“ _No one_ should be here,” The dragon hissed.

John did a double take at the fact it could talk in dragon form. He couldn’t dispute that sentiment so he kept quiet. Instead he reached out with his mind to look for Sherlock.

_Sher? Love? Talk to me, please!_

_< John… Greg…>_

_Are you hurt?_

_< Broken wing. I reset it. It’s healing. Nasty knock on the head. Concussed, I think. I don’t think I’ll be flying again soon.>_

_Where are you? I need to find you._

_< Don’t move from where you are! I’m trying to find Greg. He’s injured. Badly. I’ll get him to you.>_

John heard an ear piercing scream and watched in horror as Shan plummeted to her death, her lower half burning with a fire that seemed more liquid than flame.

_You’re an orphan again,_ John thought automatically.

_< Good. I hope she left me something in her Will.>_

The only creatures alive in the courtyard were cowering as John and his two new acquaintances were. Fire had stopped falling from the sky but no one was ready to creep out and see if the aerial holocaust was over. Sherlock moved through the gates, one wing dragging behind him, torn to shreds and swollen in the place it had been broken. That sight was enough for John to steal his courage and he bolted to his lover’s side, keeping his head low until he got close enough. Sherlock’s uninjured wing wrapped protectively around John and they carefully made their way into the castle.

Sherlock lowered himself to the floor with a groan and John slipped Lestrade’s unconscious form from his back. Mycroft’s form burst through the doors, transforming mid-stride. He ran over to John’s side and dropped to his knees beside him.

“Gregory, my love,” Mycroft whispered, gently stroking his fingertips across an uninjured section of his cheek.

Lestrade’s skull was fractured above his right ear, blood soaking the hair and clothes around his shoulders. A stab wound on one side of his chest showed where a knife had gotten him. He had another wound on his leg that had shattered the bone there, likely a machine gun bullet or two… or three. John was assessing the injuries to his ribs when someone shouted for him.

“Are you John Watson?” A woman asked, having rounded the corner.

“Yes?”

“ _Doctor_ John Watson?” She specified.

“Yes! What?!”

“We have a medical area set up,” The woman stated, “Please come with me.”

“My thrallmate-“

“Get a stretcher over here!” The woman interrupted.

“I’m treating him,” John snapped as two men came running up with a stretcher.

“No one would dare stop you,” The woman stated.

John stood and hurried after the two men pushing the stretcher, groaning in agony as his ribs protested, “I need my ribs wrapped.”

“We’ll have someone take care of it.”

What followed were hours of surgery and emergency medical care that eventually became automatic as he functioned on no sleep and pain endorphins. The dragons- who cared for each others injuries- were cloistered into the recovery area, lending their healing magic to those who had survived both the battle and surgery. The combination of so many dragons in one area was pushing the healing process to heights that let him actually _see_ it happening between trips into the room. In fact, his ribs were far less painful, allowing him to breathe easily while moving around the room despite the fact that the pain pills he’d downed had worn off hours ago.

Finally, John and the others with medical experience collapsed into beds and cots that had been rolled into a guest room for them. Those who had needed more care than John and the other doctors had provided- including Lestrade with his head injury- had been taken to BMI for treatment. Mycroft had left with Lestrade, his face tense and his suit buttoned up incorrectly. Sometime around noon the next day Sherlock slipped into John’s bed, or rather he replaced the pillow with his thighs and John smiled into them and went back to sleep. He’d only been out for a few hours and was exhausted.

_< I’m proud of you,> _Sherlock whispered into his mind as he drifted off again.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

It wasn’t until the next day, as he was standing by Lestrade’s side, that he found out that Moriarty had survived the battle. Not only had he survived it, but also he was now free of his enthrallment by Shan since she was dead. He would be free to do as he pleased now, free to terrorize them further without Shan’s interference in his plans.

Lestrade would live, and with Sherlock’s healing nearby him once more his recovery would be faster. Irene Alder had faired worse than they. Her husband had been killed in the battle, his thralls killing themselves shortly after since there were no children to take them. Irene sat in their hospital room with Lian in her arms, tears running down her cheeks as she silently and stoicly wept for her lost love.

“You think she’ll bond with Molly or Kate?” John asked softly.

“Who knows?” Sherlock sighed, “That’s more your area. I hope so, for all their sakes. Dragons tend to mate for life, though. She may never choose another bonded.”

“Douglas did. Two more.”

“Yes, but he was a rare exception… although… now that we know dragons are actually more prolific than was originally thought, perhaps it’s time to throw out all our old information and start fresh.”

“Oh? Will that be our next project, then? Categorizing new and more accurate information on dragons?”

“It sounds a worthy venture,” Sherlock considered, “We still have to find Moriarty, though.”

“That won’t be necessary,” A voice spoke softly from the doorway.

They turned and bowed, eyes carefully lowered as the Queen walked into the room.

“Moriarty is dead.”

“You killed him, Ma’am?” John asked.

“I hunted him down, but sadly I was not the one to deal the death blow. I thought you, Doctor Watson, would like to hear the end of the matter for that blog that I so enjoy.”

Sherlock gave John a thoroughly disgusted look that he ignored.

“I’d be honored, Ma’am.”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

John walked out of the hospital, his arm linked with Sherlock’s and his daughter on his hip. They slipped into a limo downstairs and John gaped at the figure he found sitting there.

“Evening, John, Sher,” Moran grinned from ear to ear, “You can thank me _after_ you hear my story.”

 

CHAPTER 58

*John in the beginning of this chapter is John Douglas- the fellow from ‘The Valley of Fear’ not John Watson.

 

The second they’d been freed from the police investigation John Douglas had piled all his thralls into a limo. They arrived at dock in a few short hours and boarded a cruise ship full of unbelievably old people with horrifically crooked teeth. It was a senior dating cruise and their current cover to escape Moriarty per the Queen’s request. Sebastian was _pissed_ when he found out they were missing a war, but his new thrallmates and dragon promised to make it up to him and they did not disappoint.

Sebastian was in his glory. He’d never, not in his entire life, been cherished before. James had loved him, yes, but even in their early years he’d been unhinged and their relationship had been volatile. Now he lay in John Douglas’ arms with Cecil on the other side and a sleeping Ivy curled against John’s back. His fingers were entwined with Ivy’s over John’s chest, and Cecil’s cock was slotted into the cleft of his arse like a puzzle piece. A missing puzzle piece that he’d never known he had longed for. He was fucked raw and loved it. Ivy was a watcher, apparently, and had panted as she’d fingered herself while the three men took turns having each other until only Douglas- wearing a cock ring- still had stamina. Then Douglas had taken Ivy tenderly while he and Cecil snuggled and watched the beautiful scene before him. And that had only been the _first night_. After that it had become increasingly more intimate on an emotional level.

He could hear Douglas’ thoughts and they washed over him like waves in the ocean. They soothed the rage inside of him and replaced it with calculating thought. The dragon was wise beyond anything Sebastian had ever felt from James or Sherlock. Wisdom, he’d found, was far different than intelligence. He was a man to be respected and Sebastian was obsessed with him and instantly in love.

Cecil was another story. The man was domineering, a miner and a hunter to the core, and Sebastian was head-over-heels in lust with him. He’d always enjoyed bottoming, but Cecil made it an _art._ The man could fuck him from any angle and hit his sweet spot. While Sebastian had never really liked rough sex before- despite the abundance of it with James- Cecil had shown him that pain could be pleasure and Seb was sure that the inhabitants of the neighboring cabins all knew Cecil’s full name by heart and that he was a ‘Master’ of something or other.

After the first night Seb had been certain that Ivy was off limits to them all, but then she’d simply slipped into the shower one day and it had been… bliss. He’d never been with a woman before and the experience had been nearly religious. Sebastian Moran was well and truly won over as only an experienced thrall could be; his mind wrapping itself around the superior one of his dragon and his body open and eager to be near his thrallmates as they danced around their dragon like planets around a star.

Then he woke up one night, tangled in limbs with an elbow digging into his side. It wasn’t the nudge that had woken him up- he’d had enough nights like that with James- it was a nagging feeling inside of him. He stood and slipped away from his lovers, watching as John grumbled and stirred as one of his thralls felt uneasy. Seb tamped down on their connection to ease his discomfort so that he could continue sleeping; John settled immediately. Sebastian slipped a very special dagger out of his baggage and headed to the deck, looking out over the blackest sky with the brightest stars that he’d ever seen.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” An Irish voice called softly, “Couldn’t you stare at it for… several lifetimes?”

“Nah. Stars are pretty, but I’ve seen far more beautiful things,” Sebastian replied with a smirk.

“So have I,” James Moriarty stepped out from around the corner with his eyes narrowed in a predatory gaze, “Flowing hot blood has always been my favorite.”

“It was mine once, too,” Sebastian recalled with a smirk, not bothering to take his hands out of his pockets, “But I hear that earlier today lots of people died because of you and-“

“That’s what people _DO!”_

“I’ve been changed, Jim. I’m different now.”

“You’ve been _influenced_ ,” Moriarty sneered, “Just like I knew you would be after Holmes took you that first time. Older thralls are so _malleable._ Like _heated gold_.”

Sebastian shuddered, recalling the hot coins surrounding the eggs that had held his long-lost children. John was considering letting him bear a child again, giving him back some of what he’d lost even if it would _never_ be the same for him again.

“What do you want?”

“I have a score to settle with your dragon, of course.”

“I thought you might have forgotten that while dealing with the loss of _your_ dragon.”

Moriarty snorted, “Tell me, Sebby, what are you going to do about me? Fight me? Report me?” Moriarty’s voice deepened, “Woo me?”

Sebastian let himself flush as if with desire, moving forward and smiling suggestively, “You’d let me touch you again? After I’ve been sullied by others?”

Moriarty smirked, “You didn’t come to me virginal… for which I was grateful. All that gorgeous experience. The way you wriggled beneath me or plunged inside me. That _mouth_.”

“I can’t, Jim,” Sebastian groaned, “I’m Douglas’ thrall now. I’ll never be able to touch you again!”

“Oh, but you can, and you _will!_ ”

Moriarty transformed into a dragon, his dark hide shifting like clouds across the midnight sky, his wings blocking out the light. Sebastian didn’t fight his urge to avoid enthrallment, his resistance would be expected. Instead he shouted and squirmed and held off the final urge until he heard the roar of his dragon over Moriarty’s shoulder. Then he slit the dragon’s throat. A quick roll saved him from being crushed beneath the dragon’s form. As death overtook him, Moriarty transformed into a human and lay limp and pale on the cold, damp deck.

“My… knife…” Moriarty gasped, blood pulsing through his throat.

“Your betrothal gift to me,” Sebastian nodded, “So I could kill any dragons trying to take me from my owner.”

The light went out of Moriarty’s eyes and John’s arms slipped around his lover’s shoulders.

“Are you okay?” John asked him gently, his whiskers tickling his neck.

“Yeah. I am. Now.”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

“Then I saw him sneaking down the hatch to kill my dragon so I grabbed him by his poncy hair and slit his throat. He never saw it coming.”

“That’s it?” John asked, “You went on deck for a smoke, saw Moriarty, and slit his throat from behind? No struggle, no last words, no…”

“What do you want? A fucking romance novel? The fuck do you see in him, Holmes?” Moran scoffed.

Sherlock was smiling that knowing smile that made John want to slap him, but he made no response.

“Well, if that’s all…” John sighed.

“Fuck no, that’s not all. You’re supposed to _thank me_ now.”

John blinked. He glanced at Sherlock who was still grinning like the almost-evil genius he was. He looked to Moran’s right at the Queen who raised an eyebrow at him expectantly. John sighed in disgust at the annoying things fate saw fit to throw at him.

“Thank you for ridding the world of that monstrocity. We’re all quite grateful,” John managed, just barely keeping the sarcasm out of his voice.

“You’re welcome. Holmes?” Moran asked, his eyes dancing as he grinned vindictively at Sherlock.

“I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Sebastian Moran,” Sherlock replied, his voice merry, “My thralls and I will sleep better tonight knowing that winged spider is off the streets and out of the air.”

“Now that’s more like it,” Moran nodded, “You’re welcome.”

“John, I think we should go back to Lestrade’s side, don’t you?” Sherlock intoned.

“Yeah, sure. Good day, your Majesty,” John nodded politely, not really sure how to take his leave from the Queen’s side.

She stuck her hand out and he followed Sherlock’s example and kissed her rings even though he rather thought she was teasing them by having them do so. They headed upstairs where Mycroft had fallen asleep in the chair beside Lestrade’s bed, his hand clasping the thralls loosely. Sherlock smiled at the two fondly, pressed a kiss to Lestrade’s forehead, hid Mycroft’s umbrella, and motioned for John to leave.

They headed home and tucked their daughter into her crib. Afterwards Sherlock described how the queen had bested Shan in a fight and went into elaborate detail about how he’d avoided being killed when he’d plummeted to the ground. John fell asleep on his shoulder mid-explanation and woke up in their bed with his lover wrapped tightly around him the next morning. It was his daughter, cooing happily in her crib, that had awoken him. He shimmied out of Sherlock’s grasp and headed upstairs.

“Good morning, princess,” John whispered to his daughter as he scooped her up and changed her nappy, “I’ve got your bottle here and you know what? I’ve got an amazing story to tell you. Once upon a time there was a dragon who nobody treated like a proper dragon because he looked different than the others…”

 

 

EPILOGUE

“Stop picking, Ford,” Lian snapped.

“It _itches_ ,” Sherrinford groused, earning a shove from his older sister.

“It will scar and you’ll be ugly,” Lian replied.

“Lian, don’t call your brother ugly,” John scolded.

“Don’t tell him he’ll scar from a rug burn,” Sherlock scolded as well, “He’ll heal up _long_ before hand, and you know that full well.”

“I don’t want to go to private school,” Sherrinford whined, “I want to stay home with you again!”

“Now, we’ve been over this,” John replied, “Your father and I feel that you need to learn to socialize with other-“

“John, _we’ve_ been over this,” Sherlock interrupted, “I don’t agree with your reasons for sending them to private school and I _also_ don’t think they are having difficulty socializing. Lian has two friends and even Ford has one. They’re off to a far better start than I ever was, and they hold their own with bullies thanks to our training.”

“Alright then, _I_ think it would be good for them to go to school instead of being homeschooled because I don’t want them going into shock when they go to college and suddenly the world is filled with _people_ instead of just a _person_ or two.”

“Well, if you two aren’t in agreement why are we doing this?” Lian queried.

There was a pause while Sherlock gave John a lascivious wink and then John piped up, “Because I said so.”

“ _Dad!”_ Lian and Ford whinged in unison.

“Listen to your mother,” Sherlock smirked.

They dropped Lian off first since secondary school started earlier, then drove two blocks down to Ford’s primary school. The boy gave them a forlorn look as they walked him to the doors.

“What if I emerge as a dragon early and all the kids hate me?” Ford asked.

“That won’t happen,” John informed him.

“Why?”

“Because your sister hasn’t even emerged yet, and if you beat her to it she’ll beat _you_ ,” Sherlock replied.

“Sherlock! He means that it just never happens that young. You won’t show traits until Secondary school, besides why would they tease you for being a dragon?”

“Everyone teases dragons, didn’t you know?” Ford asked.

John and Sherlock stopped in their tracks and Sherlock grabbed Ford’s sachel and pulled him around.

“What do you mean everyone makes fun of dragons? Why?” Sherlock demanded.

“Because they’re… we’re… different. Why do you think I’ve only one friend? Everyone knows I’ve got two dads because one of them is a dragon so they won’t play with me.”

John and Sherlock exchanged frowns and Sherlock silently told John to handle it.

“There’s nothing wrong with being a dragon, Sherrinford,” John stated firmly, “It’s an honor.”

“Maybe it used to be,” Ford shrugged, “Before it was common. Now it’s not a big deal unless you’re _directly_ descended from the Queen herself.”

“Yes, well, if anyone bothers you tell them you’ve had tea with the Queen multiple times,” Sherlock replied coldly, “And that you’ve beaten her at chess _twice_.”

John grinned at that fond memory and nodded enthusiastically.

“Yeah, right,” Ford snorted, returning Sherlock’s scathing look and brushing blonde curls out of his face, “As if anyone would believe _that_ old story.”

With that Sherrinford turned sharply on his heels and marched into his classroom without a backward glance. John and Sherlock, apparently dismissed from their stroppy son’s presence, watched him choose a seat at the front of the classroom and sit straight and proper in his chair.

“We should go,” John whispered.

“Just a moment,” Sherlock replied softly.

He was watching the child he’d given birth to eight years ago continue to stare at the chalkboard. A student tried to engage him and he gave a terse reply before looking forward again. The young girl, clearly put off, turned to speak with another student instead.

“Now do you see?” John asked softy but with a bit of pique.

“I _know_ John,” Sherlock growled, “But I don’t like them away from us.”

“I don’t, either,” John replied gently, “But the world is a safer place now than it was when Lian was a baby. They’ll be okay.”

“How can you say that when we’re still picking our way through crime scenes every week?” Sherlock asked with a frown in John’s direction.

“Well at the very least _our kids_ shouldn’t be picking their way through crime scenes every week with us,” John replied, folding his arms and giving Sherlock his most cross glare.

“Why not? They know all there is to know about forensics, anatomy, chemistry-“

“Blood spatter, rape, murder-“

“At least they’re aware of danger,” Sherlock snarled, starting to turn angry, “Lian would _never_ get into a car the way that idiot teen did last month.”

The teacher gave them both a frown and shut the door pointedly in their faces. John and Sherlock turned to leave the school, John looking chagrined and Sherlock looking bored.

“I suppose this means we won’t be snogging on the couch?”

John sighed, “No, Sherlock, it means we’ll be having _angry_ sex on the couch.”

“Oh!” Sherlock perked up considerably, “I love angry sex!”

A passing teacher gave them a worried glare and John sped up his steps. Sherlock turned his coat collar up as they exited the building. One of the drawbacks of dragons being lowered down to the ranks of ‘normal citizen’ was that Sherlock could no longer run around naked. That meant if he changed into a dragon for some reason John had to have clothing on hand for him when he changed back. John had simplified the issue by carrying a pair of scrubs on him wherever he went. Lestrade kept a pair handy for Sherlock, too, just in case.

They slipped back into their car and Sherlock steered it expertly out into traffic. The biggest downside to dragon equality, in John’s opinion, was that they could no longer teleport everywhere since Sherlock had to be in dragon form to do that. They’d ended up buying a car shortly after Sherrinford had hatched. John was keeping it in pristine condition and talking about showing it when it became a classic in a hundred years or so. He was obsessive about it and Sherlock thought it was annoying how often he washed the damn thing; especially since he refused to do it in tight shorts and a white vest like some raunchy porno.

“John?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to have another?”

John considered it a moment, “Let’s get through the teens with these two, first, yeah?”

“Mmm, if you insist,” Sherlock sighed dramatically.

“What now?” John asked, trying to hide a smile.

“I miss them already.”

John chuckled, “They’ll be home for supper, you twat. Now let’s go home so you can have me for lunch.”

That brightened Sherlock’s mood considerably and he hummed a symphony that John didn’t recognize while smiling cheerfully as they headed home to Baker Street.

 

A/N: While Sherlock was the literal ‘mother’ for Sherrinford, he chose to go by ‘father’, so John is still ‘mummy’ to Sherrinford as well as Lian. Lestrade and Mycroft cannot have children since Mycroft is not a ‘fully expressed’ dragon. Molly gave birth to a girl named Elise, and Kate gave birth to a boy named Eric. Irene never re-married, but she did bond with Molly eventually and they are planning more children in the future. Sebastian and John Douglas had a little boy and named him James- because Sebastian’s still kind of a bastard and thought it was funny. Ivy has had no more children, while Cecil and John Douglas prefer not to carry.


End file.
